


The Calf and the Swallow

by mooncalfhippie



Series: The Calf and the Swallow [1]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 33,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23425435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooncalfhippie/pseuds/mooncalfhippie
Summary: A Quasimodo-centered fic inspired by the 1996 Disney film, the novel, and the 1939 film. It's been a year since Quasimodo rescued Esmeralda from Frollo and the unusual bell-ringer still fails to fit into Parisian society. But, with the introduction of some strange characters, Quasimodo realizes that there are more wholesome things than social acceptance.WARNING: the term "rape" is never used but it is sort of alluded to. No character is assaulted in this way! Violence is described.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda/Phoebus de Martin, Quasimodo (HoND)/Original Character(s)
Series: The Calf and the Swallow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685083
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. 1

PREFACE:

Alright, here we go. I wrote this to completion before publishing it. It is completely finished!

Like I said in the summary, this is mostly based off of the Disney film. However, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame has been an important story in my life since high school, when I developed a strange fascination with it. I love the book and the 1939 film is extraordinary, and I pull inspiration from both. One thing lacking in the Disney version that I found very interesting is Quasimodo's bitter, self-deprecating sense of humor. He is also quite philosophical and far less naive. I tried to marry these different versions together. I have inserted a couple of OCs, but I see myself more in the character of Quasimodo, and I find him to be far more intriguing and endearing than any other character. I hope I do the character some justice.

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." - Jiddu Krishnamurti

WARNING: violence, implication of sex, mention of sexual assault (NOT actually experienced by any character!)

* * *

Esmeralda and Phoebus liked to drag him to the local tavern whenever he lacked a good excuse to stay in the belltower. Although he didn't see why they fancied it so much, what with all the drunk, stumbling men. Quasimodo moved backward on his stool when a man nearly collapsed on him. He frowned and went back to looking at his tankard. He had grown up on cheap wine, like most Parisians, but now it somehow felt inappropriate to drink it. He was given a pint and it was small in his hand. He stared at his fingers, shrinking under the gaze of drunken strangers. Phoebus said it was important to take part in "plebeian society" in order to fit in. Quasimodo figured there was no place where such an odd shape could fit in. He imagined a puzzle piece which had been chewed on and then placed back in the box. The thought made him chuckle sadly.

Esmeralda returned from a conversation with another woman. She sat down next to the hunchback and touched his shoulder, causing him to look over. "Hey. Doing okay?"

Quasimodo nodded. Esmeralda rubbed his shoulder. He'd stand out even if it weren't for his shape thanks to his bright red hair. Some people thought red hair meant good luck. Most perceived it as the mark of the devil.

"Remind me why I'm marrying this man," Esmeralda said, looking across the room. Quasimodo followed her eyes to spot Phoebus struggling with another man in an arm-wrestle. Phoebus cursed when the other man slammed his fist to the table, and a group of people cheered. Quasimodo nearly laughed and rubbed his forehead.

The victor stood up and sloshed a tankard of grog. "See what a real man looks like!" he yelled toward Esmeralda. "Why don't you come home with me, Gypsy strumpet? Name your price!" He thrusted his hips a few good times before kneeling over with a baritone laugh. He straightened out and stumbled back. "Will nobody else challenge me?"

Phoebus cringed at his fiancé, and Quasimodo sported a grimace, looking at Esmeralda. Esmeralda was crossing her arms. She tapped her foot, once, twice, then turned wholly to face her companion.

"Quasi?" she asked sweetly. She looked at him expectantly, then he sighed and started to respond.

"I-I'm not sure-"

"The whores at Rose's Brothel are far more responsive!" The man yelled. Phoebus went to stand to challenge the man, but Quasimodo was quicker. He put his tankard down loudly and walked unevenly toward the drunkard. All eyes moved from the beautiful Romani woman to the strange man. Quasimodo sat down across from the drunkard and put his elbow on the table after a moment of hesitation.

"Yes!" Phoebus exclaimed. "C'mon Quasi!"

The man laughed. "Send a crippled beast my way, huh? Shouldn't you be out begging? But who would offer charity to a demon?"

Quasimodo tried to ignore the man's words. He was having second doubts when the drunkard sat across from him and grabbed his hand. The drunkard was over six foot and composed only of muscle and hardness. He rolled up his sleeves to show his ridiculous arms. The man sensed Quasimodo's discomfort, smirking. The hunchback swallowed and furrowed his bushy red brows. Everyone in the tavern formed a circle about the pair. I must be out of my mind, the hunchback thought to himself.

"Go!"

Quasimodo braced himself and waited. He'd never done an arm wrestle before, although Phoebus tried to pressure Quasimodo into trying it.

The drunkard smiled and leaned toward Quasimodo, the veins in his arm popping. Quasimodo looked confused for a moment. He looked at his hand, then his elbow, then back at the drunkard. This was when the drunkard changed his tune, a look of concern now dominating his features. He grabbed the side of the table and pushed all of his weight onto Quasimodo's hand. Quasimodo's other arm stayed resting on his leg and he waited. The drunkard grew frustrated, and again began to spit his insults.

"Just like a monster to defend a slut-"

The man's arm hit the table with a painful thud. He let loose a "gah!" and threw himself back, holding his hand to his chest like a child holding a doll. Quasimodo's expression had darkened and he watched the strongman with a severe, one-eyed gaze.

Esmeralda clapped happily and Phoebus slapped Qausimodo's back while the crowd reveled in excitement. It was quite a show, apparently. Someone yelled about bell ringing, and another called him one-impressive-simpleton. Quasimodo removed himself from the table and shook his head, now looking guilty.

"How'd it feel, Quasi?" Phoebus asked. "I told you to try it."

"I feel..." Quasimodo shrugged. "Immature."

"That's the spirit!" Phoebus laughed.

Quasimodo turned to Esmeralda. "Are you alright?" He asked her.

Esmeralda rubbed his shoulder. She passed him another tankard and they moved to their original spot.

"Thanks for standing up for me," she said to him.

"You'd do the same for me," he responded. They watched the strongman stumble outside with his friends.

Quasimodo stared at the bottom of his cup. That would make two unfinished tankards. "Esmeralda, I think I'm gonna go back to—"

The doors swung open and a woman with an entourage barged in. The crowd turned. She was singing something and already appeared inebriated. She wouldn't stand out, if it weren't for her beautiful purple dress, suggesting wealth—or a wealthy husband.

A man serving drinks approached Quasimodo. "Time for you to go. Can't have you frightening our more... refined guests."

"Now hold on," Esmeralda started. Quasimodo rested his hand on her arm, moving down her pointed finger.

"I was going to leave, anyway," he said softly, and hopped down from his seat.

Esmeralda scowled and crossed her arms. "Fine," she said. She called over Phoebus, who had already gotten into another arm wrestle (and was threatening his opponents with constant nods in the direction of the hunchback). He departed from the other men like a lover being separated from their soulmate.

Meanwhile, the wealthy woman was buying everyone drinks. Quasimodo was heading for the exit when she called over to them.

"The night is young, my friends. Stay!"

Quasimodo tugged on his cape and hid his face under his hood. He was sandwiched between Esmeralda and Phoebus, who both turned to find an excuse. They tripped over each other's sentences before Phoebus raised his voice.

"Drinking is tiring business," Phoebus announced. "I'm afraid we must be going."

Another woman whispered in the wealthy woman's ear, and her eyes moved to the hunched figure. She whispered something back scoldingly and took a sip of wine.

"Very well," she acquiesced, then she raised her glass. "Ring the bells with a song in your heart, bell ringer! No sound brings me greater pleasure!"

Quasimodo spared her a look before being ushered out by his companions. He took a deep breath of Paris's cold night air and sighed, rubbing his good eye.

"I don't think the tavern is for me," he said sheepishly toward his friends. He didn't like to disappoint them.

"What do you mean, Quasi? You're popular!" Phoebus said, before slapping Quasimodo's back again. He was tipsy. Quasimodo, conversely, had never been drunk in his life. "Men have to show each other who's boss. Right, my love?"

"Apparently," Esmeralda said.

"Men?" Quasimodo quietly asked. He shook his head and began to play with his fingers. "I don't think I want to be 'boss' of anything." He sighed. "I hope I didn't hurt him."

"He's a jerk," Phoebus said. "He deserved it. As captain of the guard, I personally absolve you."

Quasimodo looked up at the moon. He had an hour of free time before he had to ring the bells. Then he'd sleep, wake up early, and repeat the same schedule he had kept for some 8 odd years. Minus a few things. Plus a few things.

Sometimes he wished that nothing ever changed and that he could reside in Notre Dame forever. He could be alone and miserable like he ought to be until the day he died and was tossed into a shallow grave. Someone would find his skeleton a few hundred years later and wonder about the disfigured creature. He shivered at the sobering thought.

"Come on," Esmeralda said, pulling him back into reality, "we'll walk you back to the cathedral."

Quasimodo nodded. He focused his good eye on his bell-towers, which peeked over the surrounding buildings like twin giants. He felt a bit safer under their unflinching vigilance. He yawned, making an accidental squeak, and Esmeralda ruffled his already unruly ginger hair.

Quasimodo turned to face them once they reached the west facade of Notre-Dame.

"Thank you for coming with us, Quasimodo. And for kicking that guy's ass," Esmeralda winked. He smiled a little smile, looking tired.

"Next time, Quasi, I'm getting you plastered," Phoebus promised.

Quasimodo waved them away with his big hands and melted against the door. He sighed, lingering for a moment before finally entering the church. There weren't a lot of people inside. Just clergymen, a nun sweeping the floor, and the archdeacon fixing a candelabra. The archdeacon offered Quasimodo a small, tight smile. The smile of a man who worked far too hard for his age.

Quasimodo disappeared into the spiral stairwell and marched up to the bells. He sat himself tiredly down at his table and looked at all of his figurines. He was young, but his body ached constantly. Whether it was because of his disfigurement or his profession, he wasn't sure. He stretched his torso and twisted from side to side, causing his back to make a series of popping sounds. He yawned and rested his cheek on his forearm. He enjoyed an hour's rest.

He had his face buried in his arms when he heard the scratchy sound of an untuned lute. He listened as the instrument's sound smoothed and became beautiful, like the caw of a crow transforming into the warble of a songbird. He searched the south tower, then the north tower. The sound was far too dim to be so close. He stepped outside and peered over the facade of Notre Dame, a cold wind combing his hair as he leaned over the balcony. The lute sounded again and he was able to track it to its source. It was the drunk wealthy woman, although she seemed far too stable on her feet to be drunk. She was standing on the balcony in front of the rose window and playing her instrument, her eyes pinched shut.

Quasimodo closed his eyes as well. He so enjoyed the sound of music, though his ears weren't what they used to be. He didn't often get to hear music other than the bells. Which reminded him. He shook his head and hopped up on the wooden scaffolding which interconnected the massive instruments. He found the right rope and tugged. The bells stirred and he was sent up into the air as the rope ascended. That was his favorite moment; his own strength would be regurgitated through the bell and into the rope, sending him up like a bird taking flight. He let go of the rope and sat down to relish in the song of his bells. They were, with the gargoyles and grotesques, his only friends. Well. Until recently. He rushed out to see the wealthy woman. She was now sitting on the balcony, leaning her face against her lute and listening to the tolls. She waited for the bells to slow and quiet and began to play to their steady, ritualistic melody.

Did she do this often? Quasimodo wondered. No, he would have noticed her. He sat down and rested his face against the stone fencing which kept him from decorating the pavement far below. He swayed his feet back and forth to her music. She began to sing. Her voice wandered, lost, at the end of each verse, but she always found her way. Quasimodo sighed and nearly drifted asleep.

* * *

The woman finally opened her eyes. She looked up; the clouds warned of rain. She admired the building from her view. She squinted at a shape far above her.

"Feet?" She wondered aloud. She watched the shape until it abruptly disappeared. She touched her lips. Bell-ringer?

She ran back into Notre Dame and moved upward.

* * *

Quasimodo was nearly unconscious when a rain drop landed on his ear. He brushed it off and shuddered, then, remembering why he was sitting there, leaned over to look at the wealthy woman. He watched her as she finished her song and swung her lute over her shoulder. She looked up at the sky, squinting at the light of the moon. When it appeared that she had seen him, Quasimodo scrambled away from the balcony and ran inside. He climbed the wooden scaffolding around the bells and hid behind a heavy pillar of wood.

He knew that she had seen him when she came into the bell-tower. He cursed at himself; he had ruined it! A good thing had happened, and he ruined it with his presence.

He stared at her, picking up the details of her appearance with his good eye. She had curly golden-brown hair and intense eyebrows. She wore silver jewelry and a royal dress. She yawned into her hands and placed down her lute.

"Bell-ringer?" She called. "I hope you enjoyed my playing. You did as I asked; the bells were beautiful. I owe you a favor. Come down. I will tell you what you have earned."

She meandered to his table and admired his artwork, but she didn't touch anything. She kept her hands clutched together at her cheek, delighted.

Quasimodo shifted, causing the board beneath him to creek. She looked up at his direction. She looked back down and studied her rings.

"I'm performing for the new judge tomorrow. I'm a singer, yes? Come find me. Tomorrow evening at the theatre. I'll sing something special for you."

Quasimodo watched her leave. He sighed in relief once she was gone, and climbed down. He looked at the crude figurine he had made of himself when he was sixteen. Something was new-she left her lute.

Quasimodo circled. He furrowed his brows and moved to the stairwell. He went back to his table and picked up her lute. He held it gently, as if it were made of paper, and was quick to analyze its construction. He fingered the strings, and they sang in response. The hunchback returned to the stairs and then put the lute down. He sighed and stared at it, rubbing his asymmetrical upper lip. He waited for ten minutes. Then, timidly, he retrieved the lute and hobbled off to his bedroom, plopped himself down on his cot, and he fiddled with the instrument until he fell asleep.


	2. 2

"He's a grown man, Esmeralda."

Esmeralda shook her head, packing an apple just in case he was hungry. "A grown man who has been locked in a church for twenty years. He needs help leaving his cage."

Phoebus sighed. "He doesn't need to be babied. He's not some helpless little lamb. You've seen what he's capable of."

Esmeralda huffed. "Maybe he needs to be babied for once in his life! Even if it's twenty years too late. Things aren't easy for him, Phoebus."

Phoebus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, alright. Fine. You go and check up on him. I have work to do."

Esmeralda sighed. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. Then she grabbed her basket and left the Court of Miracles. She moved toward the cathedral angrily, not taking note of her surroundings. She didn't smile at the archdeacon when he waved at her, and didn't initially recognize it when she reached the bell-tower.

She gathered herself and called for him. "Quasi?"

She moved outside to the balcony. The weather had chilled, and she wished she had a coat. She followed the sound of plucking until she found Quasimodo. He had a thin blanket loosely hung around his uneven shoulders.

"Where'd you get that, Quasi?" Esmeralda asked. She forced an upbeat tone.

"Oh! Esmeralda!" He exclaimed, then put the lute behind him. "I, um. I found it."

Esmeralda paused. "Uh... huh." She sat down next to Quasi and rubbed her arms. Phoebus would be very unhappy if he had learned that Quasimodo stole, but Esmeralda was used to the practice. Still, she eyed the lute and frowned. She cleared her throat. "It's so cold in the bell-tower this time of year."

Quasimodo chuckled a bit. He gingerly placed the blanket over her, and she wrapped it around herself. He was always a bit surprised when she didn't recoil in disgust. "You get used to it."

"Quasi," Esmeralda turned, grabbing his hand suddenly, "I know I've asked you this before, my friend. But please reconsider. Come live in the Court of Miracles. It's warm, and safe, and you'll be accepted there."

His eyes were downcast. He inspected her hand, which seemed so small next to his.

"If things were different... if I were different," he started, refusing to look up, "I'd go. But this is where I belong. I like it here, you know. To think that I used to think it was a prison... but it's forgiving to me."

Esmeralda reached up and held his face, forcing him to look up at her. His morose expression did not fit the forced tone of optimism in his words, even when he tried to smile.

"Quasi..." she whispered. "You belong with other people, like everyone. They just need to get to know you. The Gypsies already hold you in high regard."

He shook his head sadly. His lip quivered and he shut his eyes. "So I can watch the joy of others from a shorter distance? Hear what they have to say right in front of me? No. I cannot."

Esmeralda stroked his jutting cheekbone with her thumb. He forced a slight smile, then laughed bitterly and moved her hand away. She winced at his laugh. It made Esmeralda feel cold inside.

His breath shook out of him. "Sorry." He stood abruptly and went indoors.

Esmeralda followed him inside. "Quasimodo!" She yelled. She climbed the ladders up to his hiding spot and crawled over to him. He had his back to her and was hiding his head in his arms. "Look at me," she said sternly. She pulled on his tunic, but he was not an easy man to move.

"Look at me," she repeated, putting on a motherly, strict voice, although she was only a few years older than him. It worked a treat, as he shyly moved so that she could see his face. Esmeralda grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "I know it's not easy to put yourself out there. But somebody has to do it, or nothing will change."

Quasimodo didn't respond much, but neither did he object.

"I brought you breakfast. And then we're going to the Court of Miracles."

Quasimodo nodded. That was enough for her. She stood up and shakily walked along the beam. She felt something thick wrap around her middle before she plummeted to the ground. Quasimodo released his arm from her waist and hopped away cheekily, moving faster than he should have been able to. He laughed when she pretended to be mad, and disappeared somewhere in the rafters. Esmeralda chased him until he left her field of vision. She stopped and looked about, then heard a thud behind her.

"What did you bring?" he asked, plopping himself down at his table and looking at her basket like a curious child. She smiled at him.

"Fresh bread," she responded, and sat next to him. "From the baker. He's very grateful for the set of wooden spoons you made him."

"Oh. Good," Quasimodo said. Esmeralda twisted a loaf of bread until it split in half and parceled it out between the two of them. Quasimodo fiddled with his thumbs for a moment, and Esmeralda waited for the oncoming question. "Esmeralda? What do you know about the.. singer?"

"That woman in the tavern, you mean? She's famous, from what I've heard. Why?"

"Oh," Quasi shifted, "I'm just curious. She... she came to Notre-Dame last night."

Esmeralda quirked a brow. "Did you meet her?"

"No. I only saw her."

Sometimes it was best not to press the bell-ringer. Isolation came too naturally to him. A push too hard, and he'd hide for a week like a hermit crab which had been poked.

* * *

Clopin was frightening some children with a story when Quasimodo and Esmeralda arrived. Clopin gave them a sneaky glance before whispering into the children's ears, propping a little girl on his lap.

"Now, the Beast of France patrols these tunnels each night. What is it looking for, you ask? Well, some say it is driven by an insatiable hunger for little boys and girls. It'll start at your toes, then it will slurp your eyes from your skull. Here it comes, children! Run!"

The children barely saw Quasimodo before screaming and scattering. One little girl fell three times before running off, screeching for her mother like a wounded fawn. Another girl, barely a toddler, remained in her spot and looked unimpressed.

Clopin clapped his knee and stood up. "Ah! My inspiration has arrived!" He swung himself around Quasimodo's hill of a back and pinched his cheek. Quasimodo swatted his hand away, but Clopin was undeterred and ruffled his hair. Quasimodo resigned himself to the embarrassment.

"Ah, loosen up, hunchback!" Clopin exclaimed. "Come now, there are plenty of girls to choose from. Although they may need bribing."

"Clopin."

Clopin turned to whomever said his name, then smiled slyly at Esmeralda. "Ah! My dear! Back so soon?"

"Where's Phoebus?" She asked.

Meanwhile, the remaining tot had stomped over to Quasimodo and put up her arms expectantly. Quasimodo looked nervously at Esmeralda, but she had her glare fixed on Clopin.

Clopin kept smiling. "Ah! Yes! He said he was 'doing his rounds.'"

Clopin watched as the little girl made a frustrated sound and tried to hop up. Quasimodo eventually picked her up, looking as if he were handling something both incredibly dangerous and incredibly fragile. The little girl grabbed onto his shoulder and tugged at his hair, making him wince.

"Come now, one-eye! Didn't you already have a nine-year-old for breakfast?" Clopin joked. Quasimodo didn't look amused. The little girl parked herself in the crook of one of his large arms and chewed on her thumb, her other hand holding onto a chunk of red hair.

Esmeralda smiled and moved to pick up the child, relieving the poor man of some anxiety. The girl immediately yanked on Esmeralda's hair, then reached out a stubby hand for Quasimodo, but they were already a few feet apart.

"This is Rose's girl. Where is she?" She asked.

"Preparing costumes for the festival, with the other women. You are coming, Quasimodo? We'd be lost without our pope!"

Quasimodo frowned. "I learned my lesson last year," he said warily.

"Whatever happened to water under the bridge?" Clopin asked.

"Come now," Esmeralda said, giving a look of warning. Clopin sighed and shrugged.

"Ah! Bell-ringer!" A young Romani man yelled at them. "Help us move some logs, would you?"

Quasimodo limped in his direction, and the man led him toward the center of the Court of Miracles, where wood was being prepared to make traveling shelters. Esmeralda watched as Quasimodo lifted a log onto his shoulder. She turned to Clopin.

"You shouldn't speak to him like that," she said, closing one eye defensively as the little girl grabbed at her eyebrow.

"I have to entertain myself somehow, la Esmeralda. Besides, I think I saw him smile." Esmeralda gave him an unconvincing look, and he thought for a moment. "Though that may have just been his face . . ."

Clopin smiled at her, but his appearance soon softened and he put a hand on her back.

"I couldn't deny you all of Paris," he said in a dulcet tone. "I will reserve my jokes for when he isn't around."

That would have to do. Esmeralda passed the child to another woman, her aunt, and turned again to watch Quasimodo taking up a log which had been wrestling with three men.

"Besides, I should be grateful. We're saving a fortune on mules," Clopin joked.

Esmeralda went to find the other women to help them sew. She grabbed a piece of fabric and sat down, watching as their fingers moved with unmatched proficiency. Esmeralda never picked it up, although she tried. She would try again; there was always work to be done. Clopin insisted on starting the preparations for January 6th, even the day after the event. His people needed something to keep up their spirits. She worked slowly, sticking out her tongue as she tried to thread a needle. The women worked until evening.

Esmeralda stretched her fingers. "I don't think this is for me," she said sheepishly.

"Neither do we," a woman nudged her and laughed. Esmeralda smiled and stood up, wiggling the stiffness out of her arms. She had lost track of time. She left the tent and looked around, then tracked down one of the young men building caravans.

"Where's Quasi?"

"Quasi? Oh, uh..." the young man scratched his head. "Oh, right! He left. Said he had chores."

Esmeralda sighed. "Serves me right for taking my eyes off of him. Oh well. Thanks, Cikan."

Esmeralda retired to her tent. Esmeralda decided to spend as much time with her people as she could before she had to become accustomed to that sort of thing.

* * *

Phoebus approached the new judge for orders. It was a portly man, and far more approachable than Frollo. He was sipping wine when he beckoned for Phoebus to come closer.

"I have been looking through old documents," he said in a gravelly voice. "I'd like you to survey the dungeons. It seems there are a lot of prisoners who are overdue to be released. Claude Frollo tried to sweep them under the rug so that they would never see the sunlight, it seems. Mostly Gypsies. One man has been rotting for twenty years for stealing a loaf of bread. Of course, Frollo had the vast majority of them killed." The judge cleared his throat. "Here, the papers. Each prisoner is to be afforded a sum based on the time he has spent past his initial punishment. It's all written down. You can read, yes? Of course."

"Yes, sir."

Phoebus took the parchment. He frowned at the list of names. Some were scratched off, labeled deceased. Sixteen people remained alive. Every day it seemed that an inch more of Frollo's treachery was revealed. He thanked the judge for his assignment and made his way below the palace of justice to the expansive oubliette. The first few dungeons were well made, but the deeper compartments were dug out hastily and held no definite shape aside from a dank hole with metal bars.

* * *

Phoebus looked at the parchment. Each prisoner was afforded a bit of moldy bread a day. Most, especially the Romani prisoners, looked profoundly emaciated. They looked down, unresponsive, as he passed them.

Phoebus took a key and unlocked a door. The woman inside glanced up, appearing frightened.

"Don't worry," Phoebus said gently. "Marie? You robbed a tailor five years ago, yes?"

She nodded.

"You're free to go."

She didn't move. She spat on the ground. "I don't fall for your tricks, Frollo."

"Frollo is dead. The new judge, judge Victor, has requested that I release you."

She was crying as he relieved her of her chains and led her out on his arm.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," he said softly. He squeezed her hand. "A man upstairs will give you compensation. Beyond that, you're on your own. I wish I could help more."

"Tell me... tell me how Frollo died. That Satan."

Phoebus cleared his throat. "Frollo fell off of Notre-Dame. He was trying to kill a Gypsy woman, but the Gypsies and some Parisians revolted to save her. He met his undoing when he went toe-to-toe with the bell-ringer."

The woman hobbled out, mumbling, "Quick death. Disappointing."

Phoebus looked at the parchment. Most cases were straightforward. The prisoners happily admitted their crimes before he read them aloud and then released them. He came upon the last name on the list and cleared his throat.

"Caught sneaking into Paris, and smuggling a child. Why weren't you hanged?"

The man in chains shrugged. He coughed at the ground. "Frollo enjoyed keeping some of us alive. I would have taken the worst death gladly just yesterday." He looked up at Phoebus. "Will you hang me now?"

"Stealing a child is a serious offense," Phoebus responded.

The man slouched. He wouldn't bother trying to explain himself, but the captain's treatment of the other prisoners offered him some hope.

"I didn't steal a child!" He growled. "I was helping save it!"

"What do you mean?"

"Frollo, he—he killed her. My wife. He loved to remind me. He killed my wife and drowned the child. Tell me, who is the worse criminal?"

"I'm sorry," Phoebus said. "I can believe Frollo's cruelty, but I have no proof that what you're saying is true. What was the name of the child?"

"His parents named him Amis. I was angry—I didn't refer to it by any respectable name."

Phoebus sighed. "So how, exactly, did you get this child? Apparently, you're not the father."

"My love, my flower, was a midwife. The child's mother died in childbirth. She insisted we take him to the Gypsies, said he'd be accepted in the Court of Miracles." Phoebus listened, but he wasn't sure how to respond. The man continued. "Sickly little thing. You'd have guessed that someone ripped apart a baby and then tried to sew it back together again."

Phoebus froze in his spot. "Red hair?" He asked, his voice a whisper.

The prisoner stared at Phoebus. "He lives?" He asked.

"His name is Quasimodo. Frollo raised him in the bell-tower."

He slapped his chains against the stone floor and screeched out a laugh. "Quasi-modo!" He yelled. "What a cruel name for the thing I lost my youth saving!" The man threw about his chains until all of the laughter leaked out of him. He looked up at Phoebus again, trying not to laugh, an unsettling look in his eye. "Tell me, is he simple? Can he even speak? Perhaps he should have drowned!"

"No, he can speak. He's... a good man."

The prisoner relaxed against the back of his cell. He put up his chains expectantly. Phoebus freed him from his chains and helped him to stand.

"You could meet him if you'd like," he said. "You must meet my fiancé, she would be very grateful."

"Who?"

"Esmeralda, she's a gypsy."

"You're awfully pink to be marrying a gypsy."

Phoebus chuckled. "Yes, well. I guess she likes me. Quasimodo saved her, actually."

The man nodded. Phoebus personally led him outside of the palace. The prisoner stopped and came to his knees. Phoebus allowed the man to enjoy the fresh air and sunlight while he looked around. Quasimodo would be in shock if he met this man, but he had to.

Phoebus rested his hand on the man's shoulder and helped him stand. "Come to the Court of Miracles," he said, "there will be a place for you there."

"Yes," the man sighed. He looked up at the cloudy sky. He was crying now; perhaps he had been crying for the last few minutes. "Yes, I know. Oh, my flower. I am free now. This is a dream!"

Phoebus led the man to the Court of Miracles, holding him up. Twenty years of starvation and stillness made him into a skeleton.


	3. 3

Quasimodo slipped into the theatre through a window on the side. He stuck to unpopulated halls and eventually crawled out onto some beams above the stage. He hid his pallid skin under a dark cloak and squatted like a bird above scores of the richest people in Paris. The show had already started, and nobody was looking up. After twenty years in the bell-tower, Quasimodo had learned that people seldom looked above eye-level.

He watched as some sort of show marched on. Performers sang with rich, bellowing voices which filled the cavernous room. Quasimodo enjoyed it, but he was most excited to hear the wealthy woman. He hung onto a piece of support wood, squeezing it tightly in excitement.

The next performer was ushered onto the stage. She was wearing flowers all over her person, and swayed haphazardly. She spun toward another character until he left the stage, then began to sing. Under heavy makeup it was almost impossible to recognize the wealthy woman. The voice she used now was far different from the soothing call on Notre-Dame's balcony. It was overwhelmingly powerful, operatic and commanding. She sang a mournful song about a calf going off to slaughter.

Quasimodo rubbed his head against the wooden beam. He closed his eyes while she sang, and wished that he could be frozen in stone right there so that he could listen to performances forever as an unassuming grotesque.

He watched meekly as she exited the stage. She was the last performer, apparently. The audience didn't clap; they just turned to each other to mumble about the superiority of the French language. He slipped out of the auditorium and reached a hall.

"It's the demon!"

Quasimodo looked frantically toward a couple of finely-dressed Parisians. He ran off, turning a corner and hopping through an open window. He nearly slipped and fell in his haste, but found his footing on the building's rooftop. He grabbed his chest, heaving, and calmed himself before sliding down a pillar to the ground. He ducked into an alley to avoid the crowd and waited in the darkness until it had thinned. It took an hour, but the rich Parisians all disappeared to parties and Quasimodo crept back toward Notre-Dame.

The hunchback was coming upon the building when he was hit in the head with a stone. He stumbled forward and felt his temple. He looked at the blood on his hand and turned in a circle, looking for the person who cast the rock.

"You broke my fucking arm, freak!" A man behind him yelled. A branch came down hard on Quasimodo's back, causing him to fall to his knees.

Quasimodo steeled himself and rolled over, grabbing the branch before he could be hit with it again. But another man kicked his side. Quasimodo was dizzy from being stricken on the head, and the five men looked like eight. He shielded his face from a kick and swiped his arm out, causing two of the men to fall down. One man beat him with a metal rod and the rest kicked him and hit him with stray objects. They thudded against his body anywhere they could reach until he lost his strength. His limbs loosened and he stretched over atop the pavement, allowing for the men to hit his face and stomach.

Torchlight rounded the street corner. The men threw down their makeshift weapons and ran off into the alleyways.

Quasimodo rolled onto his hands. It was raining—he had failed to notice, somehow. Blood spilled from his split lip onto the pavement. He groaned, balling his fists and curling into a ball. He heard the familiar, noisy march of the evening patrol.

"You! In the square! State your name!"

Quasimodo scraped his forehead against the pavement. He tried desperately to gather himself. He hardly was conscious. He tried to rise to his feet, but his ribs protested. He ran into Notre-Dame semi-keeled over, using his hands to walk like an animal. He struggled through the nave and collapsed against a stone column.

"Who is that?" The archdeacon said. He put down his candle snuffer and followed where the creature had fallen. "Quasimodo? Oh, my poor boy."

The archdeacon lowered himself to his knees with all the speed his antiquated joints allowed and grabbed Quasimodo's face. Quasimodo blinked, slowly, and struggled to keep from falling unconscious.

The doors swung open with a voice bellowing, "beauteous success! Did you come to hear my song, bell-ringer?"

The wealthy woman explored the church and came up behind the archdeacon.

"Monsieur?" She asked. She kneeled down, and wobbled; she was evidently drunk. She shook her head. "Oh!" She exclaimed, grabbing her face. The archdeacon held out his arm to stop her from coming any closer.

"Quasimodo is injured. Please, find the nuns," he spoke to her. She nodded desperately and slid, running, across the polished floor.

"Come, boy. You must stand," the archdeacon ordered the bell-ringer, but the man was largely unresponsive. He pulled up with all his might, and Quasimodo, thank God, rose shakily to his feet. Two nuns came up beside them and grabbed the hunchback's other arm, hoisting him up as he began to drift back onto the ground. The nuns and the archdeacon brought Quasimodo to the bell-tower and placed him in his cot. The wealthy woman had disappeared.

"What happened, archdeacon?" A nun asked. The archdeacon shook his head in response. He ordered them to get rags and water.

Quasimodo mumbled something and fell sideways. The archdeacon forced him to lay on his back, difficult as it was for the oddly shaped man, and felt through the hunchback's tunic for fractured bones. He took a knife and tore through Quasimodo's clothing. He was less of a human then and more of a rotten fruit. His flesh was a deep purple shade. Swollen bumps decorated his chest like stars decorated the sky. The archdeacon, though a novice in the healing arts, counted three broken ribs. The clergyman grabbed a moistened towel from the returning nuns and wiped blood off of the young man's broken-mosaic face.

* * *

Phoebus led the then-prisoner through the court of miracles and found Esmeralda drinking a bowl of soup. She would have said something sarcastic, if it weren't for the presence of the emaciated man with him.

"Phoebus?" She asked. She steadied the man as Phoebus set him down.

"Food?" Phoebus asked. Esmeralda nodded, of course, and gave the man her bowl.

"Slowly," she said, "don't make yourself sick. Phoebus, who is this?"

"I released a few prisoners this afternoon. This is Gitano. This was the man caught smuggling Quasimodo into the city twenty years ago!"

Esmeralda looked at the Romani man, then at her fiancé. "Really?"

"Yes!"

"He's his... dad?"

"No!"

"Then who is he?"

"He was helping his wife, the midwife to Quasimodo's mother, smuggle him into the Court of Miracles!" Phoebus sat across from Esmeralda and awaited her response.

She leaned back, staring at the stranger. "Quasimodo says his mother was killed by Frollo outside of Notre-Dame."

The man looked up from his soup. "No, not his mother," he mumbled.

Esmeralda looked between them. "Well, we have to tell Quasi."

"What a name!" The man laughed into his soup. Twenty years of darkness had touched him, but it was to be expected.

"It's too late right now, he's probably trying to sleep," Phoebus thought aloud. Esmeralda agreed.

"Alright. Gitano? I'll find you some place to sleep. It's the least I can do."

Esmeralda grabbed his arm and helped him stand. He was still nursing the soup as she lead him to a tent.

Phoebus sighed and leaned back, enjoying the view of his leaving fiancé. The Court itself was beautiful, although messy. Candlelight reflected off of saturated tapestries while Romani men, women, and children maneuvered the clutter and readied themselves for bed, although the Court of Miracles never slept. The Romani people were healthier in Paris than even before, and violence toward them had lowered over the last year. Phoebus found a cup of ale and settled in; things were looking up.

* * *

The archdeacon returned to the bell-towers the following morning. Quasimodo had survived the night, but there was no telling how much damage had been done to his head. It was the first time in years that somebody else had rung the bells. Even their thundering song didn't wake the hunchback.

The archdeacon paused at Quasimodo's wooden replica. There was a note on the table on top of a stuffed basket. He timidly peeled back the deerskin which covered its contents. He pulled out a box of dried herbs (medicine, no doubt), linen wrap, coins, and a bottle of expensive wine. The note said: "I heard it on the grapevine that you came to my performance, bell-ringer. Heal post-haste."

The archdeacon brought the basket and the note to Quasimodo's sleeping quarters and placed them next to him. He placed the back of his hand to the hunchback's forehead, then felt his arm for a pulse. He was breathing steadily and had a constant heartbeat, but the archdeacon knew of men who were beaten so severely that they slept and did not awaken.

He headed to the nave for morning mass.

Esmeralda and Phoebus entered with a man he didn't recognize, and the archdeacon stopped them with a serious look. He approached them slowly, his sandals scraping against the floor.

"Francis!" Esmeralda smiled briefly at him, but her face fell in response to his severe expression. "What is wrong?"

"The bell-ringer is hurt. I don't think it wise to introduce any ... stress."

Esmeralda blanched. She grabbed the archdeacon's arm. "What happened? Where is he?"

The archdeacon sighed. "He's in the bell-tower. He stumbled in and collapsed. I believe he was beaten, but by whom... I do not know."

Esmeralda put her hand to her mouth, gasping. She ran up the spiral staircase before she could be stopped.

"I'm sorry. This isn't the time." Phoebus said, turning to Gitano.

Gitano frowned. "Poor creature. I said it. Better off drowned."

"You don't care about him, do you?" Phoebus asked.

The Romani man sighed, shaking his head. "I'm glad to hear that my wife succeeded in protecting him. It's what she wanted. I want him safe. But what I want most is to drink away the past twenty years."

Phoebus rubbed his eyes. It was understandable, yes. Very understandable.

The Romani man rested a hand on Phoebus' shoulder. "I'm going to go get a drink," he said. Phoebus nodded. He watched the Romani man walk off, limbs as spindly as an insect, and followed Esmeralda up to the bell-tower.

He found her fussing about Quasimodo's unmistakable form.

"Is he—is he alright?" Phoebus asked. He sat down next to Esmeralda, placing a hand on her back, and looked at their friend. Phoebus has witnessed all manners of injuries during battle, but it was different seeing someone close be hurt so badly. His face flushed with concern. He wasn't as close to the man as Esmeralda was, but he still cared for him. It was hard not to.

"He's in a bad way," she responded. She brushed his crimson hair out of his face.

Phoebus frowned. He hugged Esmeralda to his side, and said softly, "don't worry. He'll be fine in no time. He survived twenty years of Frollo, right?"

"I'm going to hang around here for a couple of days," Esmeralda resolved. "Just until he wakes up. I'll come back to the Court at night."

Phoebus nodded. "I have to meet with my guards. I'll bring you dinner."

Esmeralda squeezed his hand. She closed her eyes and listened as her fiancé stood and walked away. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Quasimodo, then dipped a rag in a bucket of rainwater and wiped his battered face clean of old blood.

* * *

Esmeralda woke up at the sound of bells. The very suggestion of their song caused her to jump from her chair, but she fell back when she saw Quasimodo lying prone on his cot. On her left was a wooden plate with bread, an apple, and a piece of meat. Esmeralda wiped her eyes and began to eat. She didn't have much of an appetite, somehow. She finished a piece of burnt chicken—Phoebus's cooking—and stood, stretching her legs. She went and sat next to Quasimodo, checking for a fever and wiping sweat from his face. Her face formed a concentrated frown.

"Who would do this?" She wondered aloud. Quasimodo would never cause enough trouble to deserve it. She searched the room absentmindedly. Phoebus would want to see her before midnight; he worried about her in Paris all alone. She gave Quasimodo one last look-over before tucking him in and leaving him to his rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF CHAPTER NOTES:
> 
> The song the singer is described as performing is "Donna, Donna". Originally in Yiddish, the song is most famously covered by Joan Baez. It tells the story of a sad calf which longs to live and is jealous of the swallow flying overhead. The farmer leading him to slaughter scolds him, telling him he should have simply chosen to be a swallow rather than a calf. For this fic, I listened to old folkish songs for inspiration and various are mentioned/referenced


	4. 4

The singer wandered Notre-Dame. She admired the stained glass windows, which caught moonlight like a rose petal catches dew. She watched a Romani woman leave, appearing ... hollow. The singer sighed. She twirled a ring in her hand, began to hum and slipped into the stairwell.

Dry. Mouth. Mouth is dry. Quasimodo lurched forward and gagged, but nothing came up. He was instantly dizzy and collapsed backward, falling onto a thin pillow. He could only barely open his good eye, and everything ached horribly. He searched about him for a cup of something to drink, found a bucket of water, and dunked his head in. He drank his full, then gagged again, but managed to swallow down whatever water came up. He leaned back and pinched his eye shut. He endured a moment of agony, a gift from God for all of his sudden movement, before it ebbed enough to search the room with his good eye. He found a piece of parchment by his cot and gingerly picked it up. He read the message, confused. Oh.

A group of men had beaten him. For what?

He heard the sound of a lute and shrank into his sheets. "Bell-ringer," a voice sang. The door to his quarters began to open and he panicked, grabbing a blanket and covering his face with it. He tried to tuck his knees into his chest to make himself smaller, but his stomach protested painfully, making him grunt.

"Bell-ringer, where are you?"

The singer smiled at the lump on the cot. She sat down next to his vague shape, putting her face not a foot away from his.

"I hope the bell-ringer is feeling better," she said, pretending to be naive to his presence. She smiled at the blanket hanging over his face, moving back and forth with his breath. She took her thumb and tried to move back the sheet. He tried to crawl away, but hit a statue.

"P-please," he begged.

She peeled away the blanket and he desperately looked away. She examined his face, although he insisted on covering his bad eye with a large hand. "Oh, poor bell-ringer. Who clipped your wings? Come now. I have a gift for you!"

"I- I don't want to, to frighten you," he mumbled instinctively, angling himself away from her. She didn't seem to hear.

"My uncle loves music, you know? He convinced me to pick it up. Put a lute in my hand once I was big enough. Well, not really. He merely had one sent to my father, who didn't care for it and gave it to me," she rambled. She pulled out another lute—how many did she have?—and began to pick a tune. "He is convinced that music has healing properties. I do find that I agree."

Quasimodo ogled her once she was looking down at her instrument. What on earth is wrong with her? Is she drunk? Blind?

He watched her as she leaned back and melted into a pleasant song.

"Wh-what's your name?" He asked.

She paused and gave him a funny look. "Oh," she mumbled, "Amaranth. Now. Get comfortable. This song is quite long."

Quasimodo looked at her quizzically. "Can you... see me?"

She looked him over. "Yes," she answered frankly. She thought for a moment. "Although I'm assuming you're not always black and blue."

He frowned.

She smiled, but only for a second. She moved forward and put a hand on his knee. "Oh, bell-ringer, I know," she said gently. "You see, I was told you had horns, fangs, little wings and a tail. So you'd imagine how disappointed I am." She allowed a moment of pause, though seeming impatient. "So. Would you like me to play for you or not?"

He watched her features. Her eyebrows were expressive and overwhelmed her face. She had a slightly aquiline nose and a wide, square jaw. He looked down at his hands, then tugged the blanket around him. Up close, she possessed a spicy floral scent.

"Yes, please," he finally said.

She cleared her throat and positioned her instrument in her lap, strumming the strings tentatively before finding the song. She pinched her eyes shut and began to sing in a melodious, low voice. Quasimodo curled up into his scratchy old blanket and gazed at her with his good eye. He drifted off into some species of prayer as she played for him.

He was stirred back to the present more than an hour later, and realized bitterly that she had left. Perhaps she had never appeared; there was initially no evidence of her ever having been there. After all, why would someone come up to the bell-tower just to play him music?

He made a move to get up but the pain in his chest convinced him to stay down. He groaned as he sat back, holding his large head. He stared at the spot where she had been sitting and touched his deformed eye self-consciously. An angular piece of white poked out from under his cot and he picked at it until he pulled it out, revealing another note: "You are a splendid audience. You have my thanks."

Quasimodo thumbed her handwriting. He should have been grateful that Frollo taught him to read and write, but it was difficult to feel anything positive regarding the cruel man. Frollo took far more than he gave. Sometimes Quasimodo felt as though every year of his life was another stolen year, something taken rather than given. Taken perhaps from somebody else, or from the heavens themselves. It seemed that, after every cruelty he faced, it had to be dark forces keeping his heart beating. He thought of the previous day. Why didn't they just kill him?

Quasimodo read the note again. He sighed, pushing out all of the unhappy little voices in his head, and held it against his chest.

Esmeralda found Quasimodo the next morning sitting at his table. He watched, a deep frown etched into his sloppily made face, as a clergyman finished ringing the bells.

"You should be resting!" Esmeralda scolded, rushing over to him and tugging on his arm.

"I am," he said, his eyes on the bells, which swung back and forth mournfully. The clergyman wasn't good with them like he was.

Esmeralda grabbed his face to examine it. Two black eyes, a split lip, and bruises. They had fully developed and made Esmeralda wince just looking at them. He was taking shallow breaths—any deeper and his ribs would deliver a pang.

"How did you even get up?" She asked. She shook her head. "Quasi, what even happened?"

Quasimodo looked at her sadly. He took a slow, measured breath, and looked back down at his lap. His knock-knees touched while sitting. "I don't know," he admitted in earnest. "I was just.. just outside Notre-Dame. Then.." He squinted, trying to gather details from his splintered memory. "Must have been... six.. no, seven? I can't remember how many men."

Esmeralda cocked her head. She squeezed his hand and put on a smile.

"I'm sure you'll be able to remember more once you're healed. I'm just happy you're awake." Esmeralda side-hugged him gingerly and was pleased when she felt him lean against her. She glanced at his face again. She would do much worse to those men than they did to him, if she could. Unfortunately, it could have been a number of individuals in Paris.

She wrestled with whether or not to tell him about the prisoner that Phoebus had freed. It would do no good now; Phoebus told her of his lack of interest in Quasimodo, and besides, he had disappeared that morning. Phoebus had asked every guard about what had happened to the bell-ringer, but no one offered any information. He posted more men around Notre-Dame to keep Quasimodo safe, and asked Parisians who lived near the cathedral if they had seen anything. Without witnesses, procuring justice would be nearly impossible. But Phoebus would not be satisfied with giving up. Him and Esmeralda had different, albeit equally severe, responses to the event.


	5. 5

The next week had been more of the same. Waking up, eating just enough food to keep himself alive, and watching other people tend the bells. Phoebus came a few times to tell him that it would never happen again and that he was perfectly safe. He'd sworn it on his life. Esmeralda brought him food and company. Even Clopin came up to make sarcastic comments about purple being Quasimodo's color. Although the bruises were finally turning green, and the scabs were shrinking and falling off.

He had to be grateful for the attention. The last time he was hurt, or ill, specifically, Frollo didn't want to be around him. So he was tended to by the kindly archdeacon.

Yet, Quasimodo's mind kept wandering to Amaranth. He could smell her perfume if he merely thought of her. Who was she, anyway? He shook his head to himself. He was forbidden from ringing the bells for at least another week, which was torture for him, and he wouldn't be able to play them for her. He wondered if she would even come back. She had no reason to, it seemed.

He heard footsteps and sighed, putting his head in his arms. He was growing tired of the men they sent to ring the bells.

"Bell-ringer!" Amaranth sang. "I apologize for taking so long. Duties to fulfill, parties to have. How are you?"

Quasimodo looked up. He stared at her.

"Oh," he said following a pregnant pause. He rubbed at his neck. "I- I'm fine."

"Good. Now. I learned new songs, and I need somebody to tell me how they are."

She parked herself next to him and pulled out her instrument.

Quasimodo cleared his throat. "Um, a-actually... could you teach me how to, uh, well. Could you help me to play?"

"Go and get yours, then."

Quasimodo reached under the table and pulled out the lute which she had left. She cocked her head for such a brief period that he nearly missed it, then pulled out a stool across from him and sat down.

"Lutes are tender instruments. You don't barge in with zealous confidence and carve your skill around that; you start slowly, and gently. Here, what's your dominant hand? Put one hand down here," she led one of his arms around the rounded bottom of the instrument, and placed his hand on the strings. "And the other up top," she positioned his wrist at the neck of the lute.

"My hands are too big," he mumbled, frowning.

"Nonsense. You made those figurines? You can do this. Have some faith—we're in a church."

Quasimodo huffed, and she repositioned his hands, saying quietly, "there, see how it feels."

He strummed the wires, resulting in a soft, confused sound.

"There you are," she encouraged.

"There are so many strings..." he muttered.

"Here," she leaned back to grab her own instrument from the table, and positioned it in her lab. "Copy my fingers. There. You're not bad, Bell-Ringer."

"M-my name is Quasimodo."

"Is that what you prefer?"

"... No."

Amaranth's expression sweetened. She softened her voice. "Watch my hands. See? Repeat those movements."

Quasimodo focused hard and analyzed her hands. He replicated a couple of notes, then tried it again. She nodded, and went off alone on her lute, playing music far too advanced for him.

"Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine," she crooned. "Do you know that song?"

"No, I - I don't know many songs," he admitted.

"How come?" She asked.

"I ... don't get out much."

"How come?" She repeated.

He looked at her blankly. "Isn't it obvious?"

She looked outside. It was raining. Then she moved her gaze onto him and his bruised visage. "People are cruel."

Quasimodo considered the statement. He had grown up being told that any cruelty he experienced was somehow his fault. Frollo once suggested that his mother was a gypsy whore, and God's punishment for both she and him was his deformity. Even now, as he pondered his abuse, he couldn't help but feel it was due to the mere fact of his existence. Quasimodo breathed slowly, trying to balance his thoughts.

"They do change," Amaranth added. "But not fast enough."

He squinted at her and frowned. "Why do you come up here?"

Her lips tightened together. She looked outside, again, and registered just how dark it had become outside. "Oh, the time. I must go," she said, standing suddenly. He reached up his hand, but she turned quickly and moved for the stairs. She descended them far too fast. Quasimodo sat, puzzled, and put down the lute.

She came back the next night. He heard her singing up the stairs. Her voice was like a drop of dew, but some part of his heart was hardened. He had spent too much time thinking—a dangerous pastime for anyone. When she finally reached him, he hardly looked up.

"My bell-ringer," she said, "I have brought you a gift."

He did do her the honor of scooting over to give her space as she sat next to him. She pulled out something square covered in cloth, and peeled back the linen covering to reveal something which Quasimodo had never seen. Curiosity got the best of his grumpiness, and he leaned closer to peer at it.

"What is it?" He asked. His voice then was almost childlike.

"Honeycomb," she responded, sucking honey off of her thumb.

Quasimodo angled himself to get a good look. He had never had honey, although the books he read seemed to be obsessed with the stuff. To be like honey was something good, he understood.

"Here." Amaranth pulled out a dagger and cut off one corner and presented the piece to Quasimodo. "Be wary—it's quite sticky. The rest is just wax, but I'm told that can be eaten, too."

He picked it up with his thumb and held it to his good eye. Viscous golden honey journeyed down his hand, reminding him of juice running off of an apple. Amaranth had given herself a portion and licked it off of the dagger. Quasimodo put the honeycomb into his mouth shyly.

"It's so sweet," he said, rubbing his tongue on his palate, giving his voice a muddled quality. He watched her eat another piece, then she turned to him, looking pleased with herself.

"Go get your lute," she ordered. He ran off, seeming in a better mood, and came back and sat with all the efficiency of a hound bringing back a duck.

She watched him examine the lute before putting it down and looked at his hand, then at the smeared honey on the instrument. He frowned and tried to wipe it on his tunic.

"Hold your horses," she said, then pulled out a kerchief and licked it. She grabbed his hand and worked the honey off of his thumb with the moistened fabric. She could feel him pull back timidly, like a snail whose eye had been poked. "There. Clean as can be."

He stared at her dumbfounded as she pulled out her lute.

"Want to learn a song?"

He left his trance and nodded. "Yes, I would like that very much."

"You know, I don't read music as much as I just listen and copy it. I guess that's not very intellectual," she rambled. "So just listen to what I play, and try to watch my fingers. This one is easy. I'll play it first."

She waited for him to nod before settling her lute in her lap and preparing her hands. He followed suit, and she showed him the song. The sound was relaxing, melancholic, but it was missing her honey-rich voice. She then slowed down, and played three notes. He mimicked her. She played the next three and she copied him, then she played the six together. They inched forward in the song that way until she was satisfied with his progress.

"Now the full ditty. I'll go slowly."

He regurgitated the song with her, falling behind a beat.

"Again."

They gave it another go, and he managed to keep up with her better.

"You're a fast learner," she said. "Good. I'm ever so impatient these days. Want me to sing the words?"

He nodded quickly. If that weren't enough, he also said, "oh, yes."

She barely opened her mouth when she sang now, unlike on the stage. But he recognized the song as the one she had performed that night. He admired her voice and absorbed the lyrics as she sang. He played the lute mindlessly, closing his eyes. A few verses stuck to him just as stubborn as the honey.

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered

Never knowing the reason why

But whoever treasures freedom

Like the swallow has learned to fly

He was disappointed when she stopped singing and put down her lute. She noticed how crestfallen he appeared, and was flattered. Her typical audiences would just stand and leave, noses in the air, speaking in articulated nonsense about the state of music and art. As she thought to herself, Quasimodo seemed to perk.

"Would you like to see the view? ... o-outside?" He asked.

"That sounds splendid," she responded, standing up. She followed him out to the balcony, and watched him. She was hit with a wave of anxiety as he hopped up onto the balustrade, and instinctively grabbed his arm. He chuckled at her response, and she was forced to realize that the man did, in fact, have a sense of humor. As if to challenge him, she crawled up onto the balustrade next to him, straddling it as if she were riding a horse. She twisted her torso to look at the Seine, and her posture relaxed. She gave in to the world around her and focused on the sensation of cold wind whipping her hair. He watched her expression turn blank and calm.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Meditating," she responded in a tone which said duh. "It's like praying, but you don't talk to God."

Quasimodo situated himself, perching squat upon the balcony like a bird. He sat down and swung his legs around for a moment, then began to mimic her. He closed his eyes and waited for something to happen.

"I don't get it," he eventually said, disturbing her rest. She giggled suddenly, a brief he-he-he, then composed herself, and failed.

"Neither do I!" She exclaimed. "Oh, but it does me good, I think."

She seemed to remember something, and touched his arm. "You see that building over there? There, across from the empty carriage. Yes, that's where I'm staying. Today next week, after sundown—come to see me! I will show you, I have a flute, and a psaltery. Oh, you will adore it."

He looked at the building, then looked at her. He suddenly seemed unsure again, and tugged at his collar. "Alright," he eventually whispered. He watched her watch the horizon line, then she shrugged.

"Ah, well. I must go. I will see you soon, bell-ringer. Be rid of those bruises by then, yes?"

Quasimodo awoke the next morning far too early. He was stirred to consciousness by a dream which caused him to seek out a barrel of water. He leaned over the barrel, gripping its lips with white knuckles, breathing heavily, and dunked in his head. Such dreams were immoral. He knew it. He knew it. As he pulled his face from the water, he spared a glance at his reflection, unfortunate as it was. It looked as if someone had dropped an unbaked clay bust and tried to haphazardly fix it. One side of his face was pinched and tugged down, dragging his eye and leaving it nearly blind and dull in color. He frowned at himself and then rubbed his face dry with his bare hands. He crumpled to the ground to hold his head, cooling himself off with deep breaths. His dream was haunted by her voice. He saw her vividly as she wiped the honey off of his hand. If he only altered the memory just a little, she was licking his hand. He shook his head viscously, ashamed as he could be, and slapped himself. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked back and forth. He tried to repress those feelings, but it was like putting a cork on an overflowing bottle of wine. It was cruel to be made that way, and to possess such desires.

He waited for sunup and walked to the balcony. He touched the place where she had sat. These feelings hit him as suddenly as a flash of lightning. He was like an affection starved animal. Just a scratch on the ear, and . . .

"She thinks I'm curious, is all," he told himself. No matter what he wanted, he was still him. Pope of fools, hunchback, demon of Notre-Dame, the grotesque statue which had one day taken air into its lungs and began to walk. Still, as he stared out at the river, he couldn't stop that red hot feeling embedded in his chest.


	6. 6

Jean looked at the map, then the letter, then frowned. He cast a shadow over the people he passed; Jean was a man of monstrous stature, and was both wide and tall with tight, evident muscle. He scratched his beard and watched a group of people move into a tavern. It was getting late. He swore, wringing his fingers, and decided to join them.

Upon entrance, he was glanced at only for people to appreciate his size. He snatched a stool and asked for a cup of something hard to drink. He read the note again, sent to him by a gypsy man whose name he somewhat recognized.

Come to Paris. You'll find that which you lost.

It was probably nothing, he understood. Mad men loved to hand out their ramblings. The world was ending, they said. Go to Paris. Notre-Dame will keep you safe. God will protect us.

He removed his cap to run his fingers through his hair.

"This one is touched by fire," a woman said in a sultry, husky voice. She sidled up to him and held his bicep. "Tell me you're lonely," she flirted. Jean cleared his throat.

"Well, no. Actually, hm, I'm looking for somebody," he said in a soft voice which didn't match his person, looking over the heads in the ale-house. A blonde man was arm-wrestling in the corner, trying to impress a Romani woman.

Jean cleared his throat again. The woman didn't take the hint. He resigned himself to her attention, and tried to make the most of it. "Would you happen to know—well, the, the—"

The blonde man suddenly clapped him on the back, and he jumped to face him. He was all too easy to scare for his size.

"New around town?" The man asked, then scrutinized Jean's face. "Welcome to Paris, I'm Phoebus. You look like you could use some help."

Jean tried to slip out of the woman's grasp. "Oh, yes. Thank you. I'm looking for—the bell-ringer, I think? That's what I heard.."

The blonde man's face turned serious. "What for?" He asked.

"Oh," Jean responded. "I'm just—"

The woman on his arm cackled. "Oh! The monster of Notre-Dame! Don't risk it, baby, I hear he runs along the rooftops at night and eats cats. Ha!"

Jean frowned and pushed her off of him. She looked offended, briefly, then shifted her attention to Phoebus, who looked explicitly unhappy.

"Don't believe everything you hear," he said. The Romani miss walked up next to him.

"Who's this?" She asked. She gave one glare and the woman on Phoebus's arm disappeared.

"I'm not sure, he's looking for Quasi."

"Quasi?" Jean asked.

"What would he want with Quasimodo?" Esmeralda asked in a hushed, stressed tone.

"Quasimodo?" Jean asked. He tried to piece it together, but Jean was not very well-educated and could not translate the Latin term.

Esmeralda straightened after whispering with Phoebus. It was not uncommon for tourists to come looking for the famous hunchback. "Yes, well, stranger, the bell-ringer is a very busy man. I suggest ogling at somebody else."

"Esmeralda," Phoebus chided. She grabbed his arm and pulled him away, refusing to entertain Jean.

Jean sighed, looking down at his hands. He paid for his ale, not having imbibed any of it, and left the tavern.

Jean meandered through town. He had no idea how to find the bell-ringer, or where he lived. He had heard more rumors the closer he got to Paris. The figure was quite famous, almost mythical. It was a wonder that Jean hadn't heard of the miraculous demon on the farm. Some referred to the hunchback as Satan incarnate. Others referred to him as a perfectly fine fellow, if a bit simple. Jean wasn't sure what to believe. It was all too unnerving; questions about the bell-ringer's character bumped around in his brain like lightning bugs in a bottle.

Having no other lead, Jean pursued the massive cathedral. He stopped to admire it's looming west facade, removing his cap and holding it tightly to his chest. He had heard a story of the bell-ringer descending from the top of the building with only a rope, swinging over a gathered crowd like an ape on a vine, and rescuing a woman being burned alive. Looking at the intimidating edifice, Jean was sure it wasn't possible. He shook his head, then looked up at the moon. It was far too late to look for the bell-ringer, and the perfect time to find a room in some inn. Jean put his hat back on, covering a mess of red hair, and began to turn. A flash of movement caught his eye.

Jean stared wide-eyed as he watched a strangely shaped figure climb down the facade. The confidence in the figure's movements was palpable; the figure was climbing down the entire building like a squirrel running down a tree. Jean felt like calling for help, but the figure was soon safely stepping onto the ground. Jean had blanched, and was gawking. He felt his knees sway. Studying the figure's bulky, asymmetrical mass, he understood that it had to be the famous bell-ringer. Jean pulled himself to the present and ran after the bell-ringer, but the hunchback was moving with unexpected swiftness. By the time Jean had reached where the bell-ringer had been, there was no evidence of him. He threw his cap down in the ground and put his hand unhappily on his hip.

* * *

Quasimodo didn't waste time. He spent the whole week pregnant with expectation, and waited for the exact moment to hit before leaving Notre-Dame for the building which Amaranth had identified. He scaled the cathedral as to not concern the archdeacon, a feat not unusual to him, and ran into an alleyway to avoid being seen. Quasimodo then hopped up on a roof to survey the surrounding buildings, and wandered about until he was satisfied that he had found it. He climbed up on a balcony decorated with plants and peered into the window. It was Amaranth, no doubt, who was crouching inside, holding her mouth. Quasimodo was consumed with frayed nerves. He realized that she was crying.

It would have been appropriate to respect her distance and leave her be. But something in Quasimodo gave an empathetic pang, and he felt responsible for her sorrow. He opened the window, and the sound made her head turn to him.

"Bell-ringer," she said in a raspy voice. She cleared her throat and tried to wipe the crying off of her face, but it stuck to her. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy and wet. "I'm sorry."

He entered the building and found the wooden floor in the dim candlelight. He approached her timidly, clinging his hands together. "What happened, Amaranth?"

She tried to soothe her breathing, but hiccuped, and began to sob again into her hands. It was a quiet sob, like summer lightning. She began to scratch at her face, and he didn't know what else to do but to grab away her hands. She stared up at him with unhappy brown eyes. He felt her as she shifted her weight into his arms, then he sat down gingerly across from her.

"Do you wonder why I sought your company?" She asked him. She tried to wipe her face again, but Quasimodo was holding her wrists sturdily. He'd nearly forgotten he was touching her as she bore into him with those miserable eyes.

"Yes," he said, honestly.

She looked at him sadly, her eyebrows curling and turning upward. She finally wormed her hands away, and suddenly began to raise her shirt. Quasimodo fell backward and covered his eyes.

"Come. Please look," she said quietly. He was stiff as a statue and about as unresponsive. She grabbed his hand and put it on her stomach. The strange feeling caused him to peer through his fingers at her, then he dropped his other hand from his face into his lap. Her torso was covered in plush, silky hair. Every inch of it. It felt like petting a dog.

"You understand?" She said to Quasimodo. "I shave it off a few times a week. I'd be covered if I didn't. Look at me. You think yourself a beast? I possess the coat of one!"

Quasimodo looked her in the eyes. She was waiting patiently for his response, still holding his palm to her belly. He took back his hand, and drank in a deep breath. There were tears brewing in his eyes, too.

"It's too soft to belong to a beast," he finally concluded.

She shook her head and matched his eyes. She blinked away a tear, then she fell toward him, wrapping her arms around his unusual shoulder and kissing his lips. He sat frozen, but he could not make himself pull away. His arms moved of their own accord, wrapping around her. It was immensely awkward, but she didn't look as miserable as she had when she pulled away. She cupped his face in her little hands.

"Then you are no monster. You. Mon ange," she whispered to him. She then hugged herself around his large torso.

He held her there, thinking to himself. Of course. The two were cut from the same cloth. If she thought herself a beast, she was wrong.

His eyelids fluttered shut and he allowed himself to appreciate the embrace.

She spoke while clinging onto him. "Think well of yourself for me, mon ange. I will always think well of you, and I know I am right. Promise me you will be kind to yourself."

It was an intimidating request. But Quasimodo realized that she had an incredible grasp on him, similar to Esmeralda. "I promise," he responded. She was calmed by the vibrations in his chest caused by his words, even as he continued. "Is this why you were crying?"

She took her sweet time exhaling, then closed her eyes. "Oh, not wholly. My father is afforded the right to my earnings. And he wants me to stop performing."

"Why? You're a beautiful singer."

"He wants to marry me off. He'd like me to spend every morning every day for the rest of my life cutting hair from my body to please an affluent politician." Her words gained a harsh edge. He felt a pang, as if he were threatened with a sword at his throat. But she shook her head as much as his embrace would allow, then laughed. "I'd sooner drown myself in the Seine. Sink to the bottom and be nibbled at by fish. That'd make a good song."

Her words shouldn't have caused him relief, but they did.

"S-surely you have the right to marry someone you love," he said.

She sat back and looked at his face. "My father is, ostensibly, a man of influence. Marrying me off is no more than a political and economical move. I am fortunate to have been free for so long."

Quasimodo couldn't imagine her as a housewife. It would be like caging a bird. Like something inexplicably wrong. She belonged on the stage. Or, at least, teaching him how to play the lute in the chilly rafters of the Notre-Dame bell-towers.

"But that's enough of my worries," she said, standing up and holding his hands, forcing him also to come to his feet. "You have enough worries of your own. Let me show you my instruments."

Quasimodo followed her to the corner of the room where she kept her instruments piled unceremoniously on a piece of furniture.

"These are all fine," she said. "But this one is special, no? I used to play it to my father when he couldn't sleep. He doesn't ask me to anymore."

Amaranth picked up something which had been sitting on the ground. She plopped down in a chair and put the large instrument between her knees. It was a wooden heart with vertical strings. She called it a harp. Quasimodo felt the need to close his eyes as she played—the music it produced could have calmed a raging bull. It seemed to soothe her, as well.

He was lulled away, but her playing stopped. He opened his eyes to see her examining the strings.

"You know, I heard many things about you before we met," she said. "You're more famous than I. Is it true that you swung down Notre-Dame? And threw a pillar of stone?"

Quasimodo was surprised at her question, and tried to shrug it off. He didn't want her thinking he was a monster, after all. "W-well, I-I had to, I was trying to save E-Esmeralda," he mumbled.

"I've heard of her," Amaranth responded. "Beautiful dancer, yes? With the Captain? Well, mon ange, that's very," her voice got breathy, "impressive."

He was analyzing her cadence. She seemed very pleased with what he had done. Oddly pleased. She composed herself.

"Men are strong," she said. "Far weaker men use it to do terrible things... To be blessed, and to use that blessing for good, well, it makes me rejoice. I am selfish when I sing. Until recently, I did it for myself. The audience meant nothing to me."

"They are lucky. Your voice is wonderful." He paused, then changed the topic. "But I don't understand. Weren't you... frightened... when you first saw my face?"

She shrugged. "I would have been, had I not seen you shuffle shyly out of the tavern. I realized then that you had a sweet way about you, like a kicked puppy. And I saw myself in that. No, not frightened. But I was so very intrigued. As if I were seeing something entirely new. But looking at you now... all I see is someone I care for."

Quasimodo looked down at his hands. There was an inkling of a smile on his face, but it was married to his sad eyes.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. She moved to sit on her bed, and patted the spot next to her. "Here, take my lute. Play with me."

He obliged, but he only knew to play the same few notes in changing order. It was enough for her as she began to strum the harp. She played around the notes he gave her, improvising. He waited with baited breath, and finally she began to sing. They both shut their eyes. He yawned into his hand once the song was finished. She grabbed the lute from his lap and put it away, then covered his shoulders in a fancy quilt. She sang again for him, playing her harp as he relaxed. He drifted off to the mournful story of a woman awaiting her hanging, and was unconscious before the song's conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Slack your rope hangman, slack it for a while  
> I think I see my true love comin' riding' many a mile  
> True love have you brought me hope or have you paid my fee  
> Or have you come to see me hangin' from the gallows tree?
> 
> Yes I have brought you hope, yes I have paid your fee  
> For I've not come to see you hangin' from the gallows tree."
> 
> This is one interpretation (by Peter, Paul, and Mary) of the centuries-old song often called "The Maid Freed From the Gallows". In it, a woman watches as her family members approach the gallows. She wonders if they will free her, but they all come to watch her die. Only her lover comes to save her.
> 
> This chapter reveals that Amaranth has a condition known as generalized hypertrichosis.
> 
> The song "Today" is also referenced. John Denver sang it, but I prefer the older version by the New Christy Minstrels. It has a very sweet, old-fashioned sound.


	7. 7

Esmeralda went to the bell-tower bright and early. By that time, Quasimodo should have been up and about. He usually woke so early, it sometimes seemed that the man never slept. She yawned, feeling queasy from the early hour. It was a sunny, chilly morning. She set down a basket of food on the table and looked down at a piece of honeycomb with a fly stuck in it. Where would he get that?

"Quasi?" She called. She couldn't hear him on the rafters. She peaked into his quarters, but no one was there. She wandered onto the balcony but he wasn't there, either. She felt panic set in, and ran down into the nave. The archdeacon was passing through a row of seats, and she rushed to him.

"Have you seen Quasi?" She asked him, and he shook his head.

"He isn't in the bell-tower?" The archdeacon asked. "Perhaps the boy went to the Court of Miracles."

"No, I would have seen him there," Esmeralda said, rubbing her forehead. "I'll look in the square."

She rushed out of the Church, finding her fiancé talking to a group of guards. She came up to him and whispered.

"No, I haven't seen him," he said to her. He was down with a terrible hangover, and sounded grumpy. "Maybe he went to the tavern. I'll ask my men to keep an eye out."

"The tavern, alone?" She stressed. She sighed and continued her search down a row of buildings.

* * *

Quasimodo awoke later than usual. He wondered why the bell-tower was so warm, and cuddled into a plush quilt. But he owned no such thing. He opened his eyes and propped himself up, looking around the room. Oh. _Oh_.

Amaranth was slumped over her harp, fast asleep. His movement caused her to wake up and she yawned, stretching. He sat over the bed and she rested herself against him, back-to-back.

"I-I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"Sorry?" She asked. "No."

"I-I should go back to Notre-Dame," he insisted, timidly. She yawned again, and patted his knee.

"Oh, alright. But let me get you something to eat first."

She stood up, cracked the joints in her fingers, and moved behind a wooden panel to change her clothes. He stared intently at his feet, fiddling with his hands until she re-emerged.

"Sourdough and wine, that sound good?" She asked him.

"You don't have to," he mumbled.

"I won't hear it! Breakfast is important!"

"That does sound... good."

She smiled at him and tugged at his arm.

"Come on. No worries; I'm the only one home, at least until tomorrow."

He followed her into something of a dining area and she made him sit. The silence felt awkward at first, until he realized that she was perfectly comfortable. It seemed to rub off on him as she poured him a cup of cherry wine, humming contently to herself. When he had something to eat, she grabbed his hand.

"You must meet my companions. In two days, come to the Singing Canary inn. Ask to see the 'hairy Cardinal.' You must remember that!"

He was looking at her quizzically, and she giggled in her high-pitched, warm way.

"Oh, yes. I know. But you'll find me. It'll be good fun, I promise. You mustn't tell anyone. Will you come?"

"Of course," he said, nodding his head. She beamed at him, and took his plate. "I have to go," he said, sadly.

"Farewell," she said, watching him as he moved to her bedroom to leave through the window. She waited a moment before herself leaving for the market.

She soaked in the sun once outside, enjoying the floral scent of a woman selling flowers. A red-headed man was buying a loaf of bread to eat, and a group of children were playing by the road. Amaranth watched a horse-drawn carriage putter along, and couldn't have predicted it when the axle snapped and the wheel flew off. She would have thought little of the inconvenience, had she not heard the shriek of a woman.

"My boy!" That woman screamed. A child had run under the carriage, and the people inside slowly shuffled out, wondering what all the worry was about. Amaranth hardly thought as she flew toward Notre-Dame for the man she believed could help.

* * *

Jean was biting into stale overpriced bread when he saw the spectacle. He, like other bystanders, ran up to the carriage. The child under it was making a horrific sound, and he tried to pull up the carriage, but it was no use. The men around him, even in unison, struggled to lift it more than an inch. The struggle continued for another minute when Jean noticed a large presence beside him. He hadn't the time to turn before the carriage was lifted swiftly. Jean grabbed the child by his armpits and lifted him out. He was crying, his arm broken. The carriage fell back to the ground with a crash once the boy was freed, and Jean turned to look at the men who managed to lift it once he had passed the screeching boy to his mother. All of the men were standing back, looking surprised.

It had been a single, oddly shaped man who had lifted the carriage. Like being punched, Jean realized who it had to be. The unique man was walking away but turned at the sound of his name, and a Romani woman came up to him, grabbing his hand.

"Where have you been? I've looked everywhere for you!"

Quasimodo looked briefly like a spooked deer. As he faced Esmeralda, Jean was finally able to look at his unusual visage. It was impossible to ignore that large, squished nose and wart-covered eye. His other eye, however, shone a beautiful turquoise, and his expression was easy to read, despite the strange lines of his face.

"I-I'm sorry," Quasimodo spoke to Esmeralda. The gentle tone of his voice surprised Jean, and he was relieved to learn that the man could speak. The mother thanked Quasimodo, as did another man, and the majority of the crowd, chattering loudly, eventually dispersed.

"Well... it's a good thing you were here," Esmeralda responded, smiling at the woman and her weeping child. Broken arms could mend.

Quasimodo looked around, but the person he sought out had already disappeared. Jean decided then to approach the pair.

"H-hello, my name is Jean," he said, holding out his hand. Quasimodo looked about him, uncertain that he was the one being addressed. Quasimodo timidly put out his hand, and Jean grabbed it eagerly, shaking it with the vigor of a dog shaking a rabbit.

Esmeralda looked critically at Jean. "Do you need something?" She asked.

"Oh!" Jean exclaimed. "No! Well, I just—" he paused to look at Quasimodo and smiled. Quasimodo was a kind man! An intelligent, kind man! He was incredibly grateful. "I should have come years ago!"

Esmeralda looked at Quasimodo, who was confusion incarnate. Then she looked at Jean, and noticed that the two men had matching shades of fiery hair, a rare thing indeed. She looked from Quasimodo's blue eyes to the blue eyes of Jean. They had the same eyes, the same hair, and the same pale, uniform complexion. The realization of who Jean was made her forget how to blink.

"I'm sorry, do I—?" Quasimodo began to ask. Esmeralda grabbed his shoulder.

"Quasi," she said. Quasimodo looked up at her, and she directed her eyes at Jean.

"What?" He asked, not understanding.

Jean held Quasimodo's hand excitedly, then clapped his shoulder. Quasimodo jumped.

"What?" He asked again.

"Amis," Jean said. Esmeralda had her hands clenched together at her lips, looking at Quasimodo expectantly. "That's what we named you. I'm so sorry I didn't find you earlier. I thought you were dead!"

Quasimodo furrowed his brows and shook his head.

"My son," Jean said softly, reaching for Quasi.

Quasimodo stepped back. A frightened deer, indeed. Esmeralda grabbed his arm to steady him. She repeated his name, but he couldn't hear.

"I- I need to- leave. Chores," Quasimodo forced out the words. He tugged at his hands and then turned to run. Esmeralda tried to stop him, but he was too quick.

"Amis!" Jean yelled as his son disappeared around the corner. He deflated, then grabbed his hat and held it to his chest. "I didn't mean to frighten him!" He exclaimed to Esmeralda.

"He's.. shy. Please don't think him rude. It's good to meet you," Esmeralda responded. She grabbed Jean and pulled him into a surprising hug, then moved away and held his hands.

"You're his friend?" He asked the beautiful woman.

"For about a year now. He's a good man. Very kind," she insisted. Jean was happy to know that his newly realized son had at least one friend.

"His name.. Quasilodo?"

"Quasimodo," she corrected. "It was given by the man who raised him."

"How is that man?"

"His name was Frollo. He's dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be; Frollo was a cruel man. He died because of it. Quasimodo was defending himself from him."

Jean looked miserable. "Oh! My poor boy. I should have been there!"

Esmeralda's expression hardened. "Why weren't you?"

He shook his head. "No excuse. That's what I tell myself. His mother died shortly after his birth. I was so heartbroken.. so wounded. I couldn't look at him, especially after hearing what the midwives had to say.. by the time I gathered the courage to face that babe, he had been stolen away from me. He never cried, you know. I would have heard."

"Why didn't you—"

"Yes, I should have pursued! I didn't! How pathetic, I tell myself! Oh, I haven't had a good night's sleep in twenty years. When that gypsy man sent me that note.. oh, I had to try."

Esmeralda shook her head, then grabbed his hands again. "You're here now. You can be there for him."

"Not if he'll run away every time I try to be," Jean said miserably. "He moves quicker than... than you'd think. Why, I saw him climb down Notre-Dame, you know!" Jean exclaimed. "I was so worried!"

"He's ... athletic," she admitted. It wasn't quite the right word.

Jean shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. He shrugged, then laughed. "Like his father, I suppose."

Esmeralda smiled. "You should give him some time. In the meantime, you must meet my fiancé. Then I'll talk to Quasi."

* * *

Quasimodo was up on the wooden beams, mingling with the bells. He had his head between his knees and was staring at nothing. Too much. It was all too much. He touched his lips, remembering—unbelieving—that he had been kissed there. Amaranth, and now his father? The man was lying. Surely. Surely. But why lie about that? No, it had to be him. Why?

Quasimodo rubbed his forehead against his knee, groaning. He recalled the sound of a harp to calm himself. He heard someone come up to the bell-tower, and hoped briefly that it would be his little singer.

"Quasi?" Esmeralda called. He didn't respond. "I know you're in here!"

Esmeralda climbed up a ladder and balanced on the rafters. It took her three hops before she grabbed hold of the beam above her head and climbed onto it. She wobbled her way over to his shadowed figure, and sat down across from him. She grabbed his hand, but he didn't look at her.

"He's very kind," she said softly, giving his hand a squeeze. "He'd like to get to know you."

Quasimodo stole his hand back. "How—why?" He asked, then held his face in his hands. "Why now?"

"He didn't know you were here," she said. "You must give him a chance."

"He must be... disappointed."

Esmeralda snatched his hand again and forced him to look at her.

"He's very happy to have found you. He's very proud of you for helping that child."

"Anyone would have," he mumbled.

"No, not anyone."

Quasimodo rubbed his eyes. He would cry once the shock wore off. He thought briefly of how a man could ever seek out such misfortunate offspring, but he remembered Amaranth's request, and tried not to think so poorly of himself.

Esmeralda analyzed his shifting expressions. "Quasimodo, where were you this morning? Jean said he saw you leaving the bell-tower last night."

Quasimodo didn't want to answer. Oh, you know. Hanging out with that girl I never told you about because I'm selfish and I wanted to keep her to myself.

"I was.. um.." he stumbled over his thoughts, and Esmeralda could see the guilt on his face as clear as day. "I was going to see.. a friend."

Esmeralda looked surprised, but she wasn't as disapproving as she could have been. "Who is this mysterious friend? How'd you meet him?"

Quasimodo swallowed. Was it still lying if he lied by omission? "They came to the church. They're very kind."

Esmeralda smiled. "Good. Then I'm happy for you. See? I told you. You're a likable person, Quasi."

Esmeralda was happy when he simply nodded. Quasimodo was a professional at dodging compliments. Thinking of Amaranth caused him a slight smile, and Esmeralda grinned at him.

"I'd like to meet your friend," she said.

"Oh, y-yes. Someday," Quasimodo stammered.

"Now... Jean would like to speak to you. Tomorrow?" Esmeralda asked.

Amaranth would tell me I should, Quasimodo thought. He eventually nodded.

"I guess I should... meet him, at least," he said. Esmeralda smiled and patted his hand.

"Good. Phoebus has taken him out to the tavern."

"Oh no," Quasimodo said, sarcastically.

"He'll only be grilled a little," Esmeralda quipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, probably a very predictable reveal. I know a lot of people wonder why Quasimodo was given a Romani woman as a mother in the film, despite looking like he just got off the boat coming from some sunless cave in Ireland. So here is his equally pallid, red-headed dad, along with an explanation of how Quasimodo came to be smuggled into Paris by Romani people.


	8. Chapter 8

Quasimodo could hardly sleep that night. He had healed quickly, and noticed his bruises were almost totally faded. Even his ribs had paused their whining, but he still wasn't permitted to ring the bells. He passed the hours hardly tolerating the agony of anticipation. He carved, mostly. But his pieces turned out shabby at best under the stress and desire he was experiencing.

Phoebus found Quasimodo unhappily throwing a wooden sheep across the room.

"Bad day?" He asked. Quasimodo sighed, then looked at all of the wood carvings on his table.

"Not yet," he responded judiciously, a tint of humor in his tone. Phoebus laughed and came up behind his friend.

"They're good," Phoebus complimented. He grabbed a wooden dog.

"Thanks. But I could do better."

"Well, I couldn't." Phoebus cleared his throat. "Are you ready to talk to him? He's a fine man. One hell of an arm-wrestler, reminds me of you."

Quasimodo sighed. He regretted agreeing to meet him, but he supposed he had to. "Must I?" Quasimodo asked dryly. Phoebus smiled and clapped his shoulder.

"Can't take it back now, my friend."

Despite the circumstances, Phoebus found that Quasimodo was easy to be around. As the days passed, Phoebus had noticed that Quasimodo was making more jokes and stuttering less. It was a treat to find that the shy, sweet man had such a wry, sarcastic sense of humor. It was like finding a gold coin in a loaf of bread.

"I'll go get him," Phoebus said, giving Quasi another pat and leaving.

Quasimodo was examining the figurine of a baker when Jean—father?—ascended into his dwelling.

"Oh, how lovely! But cold," Jean exclaimed. He shuffled over to the table and sat across from Quasimodo. Quasimodo eventually looked up, not knowing how to respond. "Do you get cold up here? Do you have blankets?"

Quasimodo quirked his eyebrow. "I'm used to it, I guess. And yes."

Jean smiled awkwardly and looked at the tabletop. He grabbed the wooden seamstress.

"You make these?"

Quasimodo nodded. "Some of them are very old."

Jean smiled sadly. "Your mother was an artist, you know. She loved to paint. The only thing she loved more than painting was singing."

This caused Quasimodo pause. He looked up at his father. "Was she a good singer?" He asked softly.

"The most beautiful singer in all of France. Although I am biased," he joked. He cleared his throat. "I lied earlier. She didn't love painting as much as she loved you."

Quasimodo put down the figurine suddenly and held his face in his hands.

"I didn't want to abandon you," Jean said softly, leaning in closely. "I swear it on my life. I would have raised you. You were taken from me. Do you understand?"

Quasimodo released a shuddered breath. He put down his hands, doing his best not to break down.

"I thought. . ." He whispered, then shook his head. "I wouldn't blame you if you really did... leave."

Jean frowned. "You SHOULD blame me. But I'm here. I-I can be a father. Teach you to fight, to throw a ball. I'd teach you to read if I could."

Quasimodo puffed out a brief chuckle. "Then I'll teach you to read."

Jean laughed heartily and punched his son's shoulder. Quasimodo rubbed the spot, smiling to himself.

"I almost forgot, I brought you something, my boy." Jean pulled something from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Quasimodo. It was a little doll. Jean smiled at it. "Your mother was certain you'd be a girl. She made it for you," he said.

Quasimodo caressed it. "You kept it?" He whispered.

"I never thought I'd be able to give it to you, but a part of me always hoped."

Quasimodo wiped the tears from his eyes. Jean held his hands tightly.

_Oh, it was like honey to be wanted._

* * *

Quasimodo entered the tavern and, naturally, all eyes fell on him. He hardened himself, remembering her words, and approached the man serving drinks, who was watching him with an entertained look.

"What do you want?" He asked the hunchback, who cleared his throat and fiddled with his hands.

"I, uh," he said timidly, then took in a steadying breath. "I'm here to see the hairy cardinal."

The bartender poured a cup of ale from a dull green bottle, then nodded, saying, "of course, sir. Come with me."

Quasimodo followed the man out of the main room and into the kitchen, passing an inebriated man in white face-paint. He was led down through a small staircase, almost too narrow for his wide shoulders, and had to pass through three doors.

"Here you are," he said, swinging open one final door. Quasimodo was practically pushed inside the basement room, where he stood squat and unsure. A host of odd characters turned to look at him. One man was wearing a jester's outfit and was sitting on the lap of a bare-chested, barrel-chested man. There was a woman with one breast spilling out of a ripped top, and another woman doing contortion in the corner. They decorated the room like strange, inebriated ornaments, mixed together like colorful paint in a small, smoky room. They pointed to an elevated throne surrounded by people singing. They quieted as soon as Quasimodo had walked in. He felt their eyes like a fiery hot brand, and just barely endured the pause as they examined him.

"Who claims him!" A man yelled.

The woman in the throne stood, raising her cup. Quasimodo was relieved when he recognized her, although her face was hidden behind a pointy-nosed mask.

"He's mine!" Amaranth yelled, causing the room to burst with whooping and yelling. She reached out her hand, beckoning him to her. He was happy to oblige and trotted to her like a dog, trying to keep his eyes off of the curiosities around him. She bade him to sit down next to her, and he did just that. He sidled up to her and nervously examined the room, feeling as uncomfortable as a person could. A man in heavy makeup turned to him.

"What's your name, babe?" He asked loudly.

Quasimodo swallowed. This was all very, very wrong. The longer he spent there, the more he wanted desperately to leave.

"Why, that's Quasimodo!" The half-dressed woman yelled.

"Well, that won't work, will it!" The jester announced. The crowd laughed, and Quasimodo gave a worried look to Amaranth, who held his hand and looked forward. The milieu was that of a dream. He wondered if her face would really be there under the mask, or if it was just a blank spot of amorphous nothing.

The man in makeup turned to her. "Name your ward, Madame Cardinal!"

Amaranth turned to look at Quasimodo. She touched his cheek, as if to comfort him, then resumed the show. She fell back in her throne exaggeratedly, then put her finger to her nose.

"I have it! He is named — Monsieur Seraph!"

Quasimodo observed the crowd as it bellowed a cheer, the fantastically dressed people raising their wine bottles and clinking them together. The man in makeup forced a bottle into his hand.

"A-Amaranth?" Quasimodo timidly asked, facing her. His cheeks were hot red and he was nearly frozen in his seat. He lowered his voice to a strained whisper, trying to get her attention with his stressed tone. "I don't think I belong here!"

"Nonsense," a woman said to him. He looked at her and noticed that she was dressed in man's clothing. "Madame Cardinal is always right when adopting another ward. You doubt her judgement?"

"Madame Cardinal?" He said, confused.

"Once a person crosses the threshold, they abandon their old name, for this is where we are, for once, honest. You are now Seraph, as Madame Cardinal has determined that you are, as I understand, an angel," the woman responded. She straightened her posture, suddenly looking proud. "I am Sir Percival. A knight of the round table!"

Quasimodo didn't have time to respond before Amaranth spoke.

"We are the puzzle pieces which don't fit," she said. "You were born into our company, like we all were. It is a blessing to the soul to belong to us. What does it mean to be well suited to a society such as the one around us? That is no measure of goodness, my bell-ringer."

Quasimodo focused on her words. She grabbed his hand, and kissed his knuckles.

"You are safe here," she whispered. "Trust me."

This alleviated some of his anxiety. How could it not? She could convince him to believe in fire-spitting dragons. Still. Quasimodo looked around the room. All of the strange people had returned to their previous activities. The jester and the shirtless man were counting each other's freckles. The contortionist was touching her butt to her head. The undressed woman was dancing to the sound of a tambourine, being played expertly by a plainly dressed man. He had to think it ironic—this was the one time that he was the one staring. Admittedly, it was something relieving to not be bored into by dozens of eyes. The lack of it was a new feeling to Quasimodo.

Many things occurring in that place right then would be damned by Claude Frollo. In fact, some would be responded to with death sentences from the man. But Quasimodo came to understand that Frollo's beliefs arose out of cruelty and spite. It was Quasimodo's job, he recognized, to be empathetic and kind. It was the empathy of others, like Amaranth and Esmeralda, which allowed him to find any happiness. However severe his discomfort, he could not find any bitterness in his heart for them. In fact, he was reminded of being in the Court of Miracles.

Quasimodo repressed his discomfort as the makeup man leaned into him, obviously drunk and stinking of alcohol.

"My friend!" He said, tapping his tankard against Quasimodo's bottle of wine. "So it's you who succeeded in taming the Cardinal!"

"Donatello," she warned jokingly. He smirked behind a wall of colorful paint.

"Oh, well. I'm happy!" He insisted, then leaned in close to the hunchback and lowered his voice. "Fuck her good once for me!"

Quasimodo choked on nothing, then caught his breath. His face and neck felt hot and he blushed bright pink. Amaranth either didn't hear or didn't care. He looked to her for direction, but she was laughing at what somebody else was saying. Donatello nudged him, guffawing.

"There is no shame here!" He insisted. "There is enough of that outside!"

Somehow, Quasimodo still managed to feel embarrassed. He swallowed hard, giving Amaranth another glance. She finally turned her attention back to him, and gestured for him to drink. He shyly sipped some wine. A moment passed and he calmed some, massaging his hands.

Amaranth leaned toward him, once again taking his hand and squeezing it. She had put her mask on her head. "These women around me are singers, too. Half of these people are performers. Many of them are political figures, or wealthy, but I figure those two are the same thing. And look—that contortionist used to be a nun. She spent her spare time stretching rather than praying. Now she does her routine for the richest men in France, but they would deny it."

Quasimodo surveyed them. It was incredible not to be ogled at. "They come here to be themselves," he said.

"You see." Amaranth smiled at him. She kissed his temple and took a sip of wine. She was already tipsy. "I know that it makes you nervous. But these people are goodness incarnate, whatever you got fed by the men in the church. They are loyal and kind, like you. Like you, they are unique." She added dryly, "What a terrible crime."

She was right. They were him, and he was them. Judging them would be hypocrisy. Didn't Jesus hate hypocrisy? He acquiesced slightly to the madness. Her calm had a projecting effect on him, like a horse mimicking the confidence of its rider. Even her open acts of affection didn't cause him discomfort, especially as he watched the men in the corner flirt.

Quasimodo raised his bottle to hers. "Thank you," he said to her, "for letting me be a part of this."

"Don't be silly. I just let you know about it. You were already a part." She clinked their drinks, smiling. He had never seen her smile so much. He couldn't help but smile too as he made himself comfortable and drank himself drunk as she took song requests.

* * *

Quasimodo stumbled down the street with Amaranth and another woman. They were singing an upbeat folk song while he watched his feet so as to not fall over. The other woman eventually went in another direction, and Quasi walked Amaranth to her home.

She bent down and kissed him, tugging at his collar. He was too inebriated to stiffen up, and instead fiddled with her hair.

She pulled away and smiled slowly at him.

"I will see you soon, mon ange."

He waved at her as she slipped inside, and kept waving a good few seconds after. He burped and meandered away from her home and toward Notre-Dame.


	9. Chapter 9

Amaranth sneaked past the entrance and into the kitchen. She bit sloppily into an apple.

"You're home late."

She turned to her father and grinned, swaying. "Too little too late," she sang.

Her father, a short man with severe features, frowned.

"Where have you been?" He asked sternly.

"In heaven," she answered.

Her father's frown deepened.

"You've been with a man," he said.

She began to look for more wine.

"Oh, no. But if he asked... a different story. Ha!" She nearly fell over laughing.

Her father grabbed her harshly by the arm and shook her.

"Don't joke about such things!" His words were biting. "I've had enough of this. You are grown. I will not have my daughter acting like a whore!"

"I thought you liked whores," Amaranth mumbled. She smiled at him, but her eyes betrayed her spite.

"I'm trying to protect you!" He growled. "What would I do if it was revealed that you were dishonored? Who would marry you then?"

Amaranth stared at him. "I can think of someone."

"Is he a man of influence? Does he own any property?"

Amaranth laughed, her head rolling back. He shook her again, forcing her to answer. "Is the sky green?" (She thought it was quite clever.)

"You force my hand. There will be no more shows. We're leaving Paris. I'm taking you to Rouen and you'll wed a man named Pierre. He is a wealthy man and he will take good care of you."

Amaranth was standing still, finally.

"No," she said defiantly.

"Yes."

"I'd rather drown in the Seine."

"You have no choice. I am sorry, Amaranth. I am. But I am ensuring your happiness, even if you don't see it."

Amaranth yanked herself out of his grasp and walked into a wall. She scowled at him and shook her head. She stumbled to her bedroom.

* * *

Quasimodo hardly made it to his bell-tower before he needed something to support himself. He fell against a statue, barely catching himself. He whistled to himself and stumbled over to his table. He looked at a figure standing a few feet away and squinted. Amaranth? No. He remembered faintly that she had gone home. Although, he did allow himself a short daydream of what might happen if the two were up in the bell-tower alone.

A woman walked toward him, grabbing his arm. He swatted her away, still whistling and then chuckling, as if it were a game. She finally grabbed his collar and he was forced to look at her. He saw Esmeralda's worried face.

"Eeemmmeeraaaldaa," he slurred, then smiled his crooked smile.

"You're drunk." She stated, matter-of-factly.

The realization dawned comically on Quasimodo's face, and he only quietly mumbled a childlike "oh."

"Where on earth have you been?" Esmeralda asked, her voice demanding and harsh. She let go of him and put her hands unhappily on her hips.

"Where have YOU been?" He parroted mindlessly.

"I've been here, worrying about your safety!" She nearly yelled.

Quasimodo cocked his head at her, then looked away for a moment. A second passed and he sneezed into his arm.

"Quasimodo!" She scolded.

"Mm' not... a child," he mumbled quietly, then rubbed his big round nose with his sleeve. Then he started mumbling something that sounded distantly like song lyrics.

"Where were you?" Esmeralda asked again, sounding more impatient by the minute.

He squinted at the ground, trying to remember. He looked up at her with wide eyes. "Tavern?" He asked, his answer lacking confidence.

Esmeralda huffed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had brought Djali up with her, and the goat rubbed its head against Quasimodo's leg affectionately. Quasimodo cooed and leaned over to scratch the goat's back.

"I thought you had been hurt, Quasimodo," Esmeralda stated, grabbing his hand away from Djali.

"That's... naaaaht my name," he responded nonsensically, then chuckled.

Esmeralda frowned at him. She had never seen the man in such a state.

"What if that gang had found you like this? You could have been killed."

Quasimodo looked off, eyes glazed. He shook his head. "Oh, no. Dead men don't hear singing." He looked her in the eye, as if he were making perfect sense. He shrugged as she didn't respond, and turned to go to his sleeping area. She tugged on his tunic, making him turn to her, now looking angry himself, as if having his shirt grabbed were a capital offense.

"You're going to tell me why you're standing here," she said sternly. He raised his eyebrows then looked at his feet.

"'Cuz of m' legs," he said innocently. He frowned. "One's shorter."

"Were you with somebody?"

"... yes. Somebodies."

"Friends? Someone you trust?"

"Yes. Yes," he nodded.

"Who?"

"The Cardinal."

Esmeralda shook her head. "You're telling me you were with a Cardinal? What was he doing in the tavern?"

"No!" Quasimodo said, then leaned down again to pet Djali, who hadn't stopped bumping into his knee. Esmeralda grabbed his hand again, and noticed he was wearing a bracelet of flowers. It seemed he had quite the night, but trying to get lucid answers out of him was like trying to ride a newborn foal. He pulled his hand forcibly away and began to rub Djali's neck, smiling at the little white goat.

"Alright. Fine. Fine," she ceded, putting up her hands. "I'm coming back tomorrow, and you're going to give me straight answers. Okay?"

He watched her leave, puzzled over why she seemed upset. Djali enjoyed another scratch before bouncing after his owner. Quasimodo yawned and stumbled to his cot, where he collapsed and was instantly unconscious.

* * *

He awoke to a cracking headache and a bitter hatred toward the sun. There was food in a basket nearby, but he couldn't think of eating. He rubbed his eyes red and changed into clean clothes. He covered his eyes when he left his quarters, squinting at the light coming through the rafters and reflecting off of the bells. He groaned, holding his head.

"I'm tempted to say it serves you right," he heard Esmeralda say sarcastically.

He turned to her slowly, then blinked. "Sorry?"

"You don't remember?" She asked. He shrugged, and she shook her head. "I'm not surprised. Quasimodo, I have never seen anyone that drunk."

He looked down, blinking away the light in the room. "Oh. Did I do something ... mean?"

She sighed. It was hard to be mad at him. "No, not really. I was just worried."

He looked at his hands, then shrugged again. "I'm fine."

She asked him a question, but he was looking again at the lute on his table. His thoughts wandered to somewhere and somebody else. Esmeralda had to repeat herself.

"Quasi, what got into you?"

He looked at his feet sheepishly and held his hands together. "Wine," he answered, and she rolled her eyes.

"Do you even remember anything?" She asked.

He hesitated. "No," he lied. She gave him a hard look, evidently not believing him. But she was tired, and she gave up.

"Well.. I'm just glad you're okay. Paris is dangerous all alone at night. Promise me I won't find you like that again."

Quasimodo looked outside, then he looked at Esmeralda. His lips tightened. "No," he responded flatly.

"Quasi?" She asked, sounding a bit heartbroken at his unusual display of defiance.

"I.. I'm a grown man," he responded. "I can do what I want."

She looked at him blankly, repressing her upset.

"Okay, Quasimodo. I have work to do. Goodbye."

He watched her leave, feeling guilty. He felt first the instinct to cry, but feelings far hotter caused him to instead think of his little singer.

Esmeralda came up to Phoebus while he and Jean were sparring with pieces of wood. Phoebus was correcting Jean's posture, but stopped to address his fiancée, who looked one bad glance away from breaking down.

"What's wrong?" Phoebus asked, instinctively dropping the wooden sword in order to hug her to his chest.

"It's Quasi," she answered, pulling away from him. Jean stopped in order to hear what she had to say about his boy.

"Is he hurt?" Phoebus held her hands. Esmeralda shook her head.

"I don't know, he's acting strange."

"How so?"

"You wouldn't believe him. He came stumbling into the bell-tower last night. Was mumbling nonsense. This morning, I tried to talk to him. It's like he's shut himself off to me."

"I'm sorry, Esmeralda. He's had a tough week. Maybe he just needs some time," Phoebus said softly.

"But Quasimodo, drunk? Something else is going on, I know it," she insisted. Phoebus looked at her sweetly.

"Want me to talk to him?" He asked.

Esmeralda sighed, considering it for a moment. "Yes. No? I don't know what to do," she said. Jean peered between the two of them, not knowing who he was supposed to be upset with. Being a new father to a grown man, he was coming to realize, was something slightly complex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt anyone will ever read this fic, but if anyone does . . . I hope you love drunk Quasimodo as much as I do.
> 
> Also, wow. I posted this on fanfic.net originally but this website is a lot easier to use.


	10. Chapter 10

Quasimodo only remembered a handful of things. Fragments, mostly, but something Amaranth said was clear. He remembered her mentioning that she'd be alone in her home again in two days, and he waited impatiently until then. Esmeralda hadn't come back, and the guilt he felt toward what he had said grew like mold in his heart. No one came up to see him. Usually, being alone for two days would be more normal than abnormal. But the events that had transpired made him itchy. He left Notre-Dame eagerly once the time had come, hoping desperately her presence would offer him some comfort, as it had. He entered through the window again to find her staring at a wall.

"Amaranth?" He asked. She turned to him and sighed, then held out her hand for him to take. Once he obliged, she put the back of his hand up to her cheek and breathed deeply, closing her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" He asked. The question seemed insulting, as her face immediately crumbled. He felt instantly responsible, and tried to keep her from crying by telling her he was sorry if he had done anything wrong.

"No," she insisted, now stealing his whole arm from him and holding it like a child holding a toy. He slowly wrapped his other arm around her as she cried, trying as she wept to calm herself.

"What happened?" He asked, his voice as soft and sweet as morning rain.

"I'm leaving," she said. Her words had a fatal effect on Quasimodo, who instantly looked crushed. "My father is making me. I'm supposed to marry a man I never met."

Of course, he thought to himself. A cruel trick, that I be given anything like this. There was nothing else for God to do except steal it away.

"No..." he whispered.

"I argue with him every night, but he won't change his mind. I don't know what to do," she choked on a sob, hiccuping.

Quasimodo looked at her sorrowfully.

"Maybe it'd be best for you," he said. His own words pained him immensely. "You could be secure. Normal."

"Don't say that, mon ange. You know I couldn't be happy having to live like that."

She had him pinned with her response. He knew she was right. He just loved to hate himself.

He smiled sadly. "I know," he admitted.

She held his hand tightly, then touched his cheek. "No, I will not go to Rouen. I will do everything in my power to stay in Paris."

"Why? What's so good about Paris?" He asked, testing her. It was a fair question, and she understood the implication.

Her lip quivered, and she entwined their hands and brought them to her chest. Her brown eyes bore intensely into him, and it was enough to make him want to look away. He suddenly realized how close their faces were to each other.

"Donatello was right. I've been tamed."

He gazed at her, needing more. She shook her head ever so slightly, closing her eyes.

"Oh, how must I say it?" She asked. She opened her eyes once more to look at him, feeling nothing but warmth at his strange appearance. "You understand, surely. You know I care for you."

Something in his face wavered, and he felt his heart pinch in his chest. She embraced him then, and pulled away only to hold his face and speak.

"It's alright. I know you care for me, too."

He smiled sadly again, and pulled her into another tight hug, burying his face in her hair. He had to be grateful then, just to be loved in that way, even if it would only last one more minute. He pulled away and cupped her teary face in one of his massive hands.

"Care for me as long as you are in Paris," he said softly.

She smiled. "Don't think so small. I'd do so on the moon."

She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, steadying her breath. She felt emboldened by his comforting presence.

"Do not worry, mon ange. I will find a way to stay. I promise."

For his own good, he believed her. He nodded, accepting her promise far too eagerly.

"Play for me?" She asked.

"Of course," he said softly, then stood and retrieved her lute. She moved to her bed, and he did too. "I'm not very good," he mumbled.

"Doesn't matter."

He began to play the song she taught him, and she listened intently. He played it over and over again until it was very late. He paused upon realizing the time, and she was brought out of her peace to wonder why her music had stopped.

"I suppose you must go," she said sadly. He frowned, then nodded. He didn't want to upset Esmeralda any more than he had. He imagined her pacing the bell-tower, thinking he was dead.

He intended to leave through the window, but she held his hand and led him to the front door. She kissed his forehead and opened it for him.

"I will see you soon," she promised.

He crossed the threshold, then turned to look at her. She had something written across her face, and they both were paused. Uncertainty hung like smoke in the air.

She slipped close to him and grabbed the collar of his tunic, kissing him suddenly on the lips and pulling him back inside.

* * *

Quasimodo woke up in her bed, but he wasn't surprised. He didn't sleep much, but the sleep he had gotten was full of vivid dreams. He blinked sleepily at Amaranth, who was cuddled into him with her back to his chest. She was resting her head in his right hand, his right arm numb under her waist. His other arm was slung over her like a shield. It had every right to be an uncomfortable position, but he had never before felt like he fit somewhere so well. He watched her sleep peacefully for an hour before she began to stir. He feared briefly that she would wake up and scream, but she just blinked away her rest, rolled over, and cuddled back into him. They were content to be like that until midday, when she announced that she was parched and needed some water. He was pulling his head through his tunic when she brought him a plate of food and a cup of wine and sat next to him on the floor. They ate in happy silence until she made a joke about wine tasting more like water every day, making him laugh.

He didn't return to Notre-Dame until the evening.

* * *

His head was in the clouds when he got back. He instantly walked out to the balcony to watch the sky, resting his head in his arms. He heard someone come up, but his head was too far away to mind.

Esmeralda appeared through a doorway.

"Quasi," she said gently. He looked at her. "I wanted to apologize for being so curt with you. You were right; you're a grown man and you can do what you see fit. I just worry... You have been acting so strange. It makes sense, things have been difficult lately. I don't want you getting hurt or taken advantage of."

"Oh, it's alright," he said, his voice wispy and light. If Esmeralda had to guess, she'd say that he had just woken up from a nap and was still waking up. "I'm sorry, too."

She came up next to him and looked out at the splendid view. He seemed so peaceful, resting his arms against the balustrade and watching the water and the rooftops. The man usually looked... uncomfortable, but she had always chocked it up to his build. It was nice to see him so serene. Perhaps Phoebus was right; Quasi just needed time to calm down.

The relaxed feeling rubbed off on her and she leaned against the balcony, sighing.

"It really is beautiful up here. I guess you've gotten used to it."

Quasimodo smiled a little at that. "No," he responded. "I haven't."

* * *

He awoke the next morning to the sound of a lute and stumbled out of his quarters excitedly. Amaranth was sitting with perfect posture on the table, enjoying the sunrise.

"Come sit with me," she said softly. He got up on the table next to her, shoving away some little wooden buildings. She leaned against his side, so solid and warm, and began to sing. He was so close to her that he could feel her voice vibrating in her body.

_If you don't like my peaches_

_Don't you shake my tree_

_Get out of my orchard_

_Let my peaches be_

_And now she's gone_

_And I don't worry_

_Lord, I'm sitting_

_On top of the world_

He sighed contently. Heaven would be jealous of where he was in that moment, hearing the sweetest sound in the word, seeing the most beautiful sunrise to ever greet the day, and sitting close next to somebody he adored. Even his back didn't seem to ache. He swayed his legs back and forth off of the edge of the table. He was happy as honey.

* * *

Jean decided to bring his son breakfast and a bottle of wine. He had to make up the lost time somehow. He smiled at the archdeacon, who had figured out their relationship by then and smiled back. The archdeacon was pleased to know Quasimodo had found his father. The archdeacon was not happy, however, with Quasimodo's increasingly unpredictable schedule. He had, in fact, noticed the woman who sought out the bell-finger often. He and the bell-ringer were never very close, but he had grown protective. Most people who came to know the hunchback would come to be protective. It was ironic, knowing the man's superhuman strength, that those around him always felt the need to defend him.

The church was a confusing building, but Jean was coming to understand it. It had its own character and personality. Persistent, austere, but beautiful and gentle. As constant as a mountain range and as loving as a mother. He came to understand that his son could have been raised in a worse place, but he still wished he had grown up surrounded by warm wooden walls, his siblings, and maybe a dog.

He heard the sound of music the closer he got to the bell-tower, and first assumed that it was Quasimodo with his lute. He was quite good, apparently. But the sound of a woman's voice made him curious, and he peeked into the bell-tower so as not to disturb the scene. Jean saw his son sitting very close to a woman. He only saw their backs, but it was clear that she was playing an instrument. Her voice was beautiful and clear, like cool, clean water. She looked very comfortable next to Quasimodo, and in fact Jean could tell that she was resting against him. He watched as the woman turned her head to kiss Quasimodo's hair and continued to sing.

Jean put his hand up to his mouth, his eyes halving in size due to the massive grin on his face. He crept back down the stairs quietly, lacking the hubris to disturb them. He was so worried that he'd find his son to be a miserable, cruel man. To find that Quasimodo was in fact loved, and loved others, filled his heart. He wished his mother could see. He emerged back in the nave. The archdeacon looked at him with gentle curiosity, and Jean smiled back at him, then marched out of the church. He needed to celebrate with a hard drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I think I understand this format now. If anyone is reading this, I hope you're doing well!


	11. Chapter 11

It was a regrettable thing when she had to leave, but she assured Quasimodo that she'd be back the next day. She had taken the little green figurine sitting on top of Notre-Dame, saying something cheesy. The walk home was pleasant as she passed all the working men and women as well as the crowds trying to purchase the cheapest produce.

There was a carriage outside, and she had assumed it was nothing. She entered her dwelling singing to herself, and was taken aback when she looked around. The entire home was scraped clean. There was no cloth, no food, and no signs of life. She crept around, and eventually slipped into her bedroom. The sheets on her bed were missing. She thought coldly that they had been robbed. A man grabbed her arm and she whirled around to slap whomever it was on the face.

Her father scowled at her, then directed her through the doorway.

"What's going on?" She asked him, not feeling bad about striking him.

"We're leaving," he said.

"No, we're not," she bit back. She tugged her arm away and tried to go back to her room, but the man grabbed her again and pulled her outside.

"Some help, Victor?" Her father asked, and a large man came up and grabbed her wrists behind her back.

"Father, please," she begged. Her father's manservant held her gently, but she was not allowed to escape his grasp.

"This is for your own good," he responded unhappily. Amaranth was forced into the carriage and her father sat across from her.

"You can't do this to me," she breathed, struggling against Victor. "Please, father. Victor?"

"I can and I will. You will be grateful someday."

"Wanna bet?"

Her father frowned. He ordered the carriage driver to get them moving.

"Stop!" She yelled, but she was ignored. She stared at her father with fire in her eyes. "I would sooner die of unhappiness than marry a stranger!"

"Don't be dramatic," he responded. "Plenty of women do this."

She continued struggling in Victor's grasp.

"I love another!" She declared, but her father had decided to ignore her. "Do you have mud in your ears, you old fool?" She turned to bartering, asking for just one more month in Paris. But the man across from her had his cold stare settled intently on the crowds outside.

* * *

Quasimodo couldn't wait to see her again. He went to her window that night, but had stopped along the road to gather little white flowers. Queen Anne's lace, he believed. It was cheesy, but he knew she'd like it. He knocked on the window and peered through, unable to see much. It was unusually dark inside. He almost left, but decided to enter.

He crept inside silently, holding the flowers to his chest.

"Amaranth?" He called quietly. He went to where her bed was, and touched it. She wasn't there, and neither was her quilt. "Amaranth?"

He wandered over to where she kept her instruments. They were gone. He wondered briefly if he had broken into a stranger's home, but that couldn't be the case. He could smell her perfume.

He crept into the hallway and into the kitchen. Like her bedroom, it was stripped bare. He dropped the flowers and ran to the entryway. Even a rug had been removed. He ran through the front door and looked around desperately.

Insanity consumed him and he fell onto his knees, tugging his hair violently. He stood and paced, then opened the door and looked back inside.

 _Nonononono_...

He ran down the street like a madman, frightening a woman who had been walking home into running inside and locking the door. He sprinted until he was at the entrance to the city. His mouth open and closed like a fish as he gasped for air, pacing back and forth. He tugged again at his hair and walked in a circle. This could not be happening; they didn't even get to say goodbye. A group of guards, recognizing him, watched the spectacle with morbid curiosity. Quasimodo fell again to his knees and wept into his hands.

* * *

The next morning, Jean and Phoebus were enjoying a pint just outside one of the entrances to the Court of Miracles. Phoebus was leaning against a tree, and Jean was sitting in the grass. Phoebus had come to appreciate the man's company. Jean was, in many ways, very similar to his son.

"Esmeralda said she and Quasi figured it out," Phoebus mentioned, sipping some ale.

"Oh, that's good. He seemed to be in a swell mood when I last saw him," Jean responded, laughing.

"Swell?" Phoebus responded. Jean's cheeky tone demanded an explanation.

"Oh, you know," Jean trailed away. He took a sip.

"What do I know?" Phoebus asked.

"That girl he hangs out with," Jean answered.

". . . Esmeralda?"

Jean laughed. "Oh, no. The brown-haired one."

Phoebus shook his head. "You have had too much to drink, my friend."

"Unlike some, I can hold my drink," he responded humorously. "You don't know?"

Phoebus shrugged. "No idea. Are you sure?"

"Of course. I'm old, not blind."

Phoebus raised an eyebrow. He shook his head, taking a swig of ale.

* * *

Phoebus came up to the bell-tower that evening, but Quasimodo made himself scarce. He looked about the rafters, calling out for the bell-ringer in a friendly voice. A terrible sob echoed through the bell-tower like thunder, and Phoebus paused. His pride turned into concern.

"Quasi?" He yelled up. He was met with silence, and called out the bell-ringer's name again. He looked around more and just barely caught sight of Quasimodo's left leg hanging over a beam somewhere high above him.

"Go away!" The bell-ringer yelled down. He used a loud voice, one deeper than Phoebus had ever heard come from the man. Phoebus stared up at Quasimodo's shoe.

"Quasi, come down!" He yelled up. The bell-ringer ignored him. He waited for a few minutes before finally leaving, deciding that the man needed his space.


	12. Chapter 12

He was back to ringing the bells by the next week. Esmeralda had come up to chat with him, but he had become a mute outside of simple pleasantries. What had happened between that calm night and recently, she could only wonder.

Quasimodo dedicated himself to his duties. He polished the bells, replaced the wax in the candelabras, and swept regularly. Anything to keep his mind off of it. The less he thought about Amaranth, the less she felt real. But she had burrowed deep into his brain, and he couldn't shake the sound of her voice. God was so cruel.

* * *

The archdeacon was spreading incense and praying with the other clergymen when the doors of the church swung open and ten guards marched in.

"Gentlemen," the archdeacon called. "What's your business here in the house of God?"

One guard pointed, sending the rest of them in one direction. Quasimodo looked up from sweeping, appearing confused. Two guards grabbed his arms roughly. He threw them off reflexively, and was then kicked in the back of the knee. He was also hit in the side for good measure. He collapsed to his knees and his hands were tied together at the wrist.

The archdeacon came behind them, demanding to know what was going on.

"This creature is accused of assault on a maiden. He will be tried and punished, respectively," the dominant guard said.

"What?" Quasimodo asked.

"I will not tolerate this!" The archdeacon protested. He tried to move toward Quasimodo, but was stopped.

"You are welcome to speak with the judge if you have any grievances." The guard directed the rest out of the building. Quasimodo looked, frightened, at the archdeacon.

"I haven't done anything!" He proclaimed. He was hit in the face to keep him quiet, and the archdeacon turned furious. He and the rest of the Parishioners watched Quasimodo being forced to his feet and pushed roughly out of the cathedral.

* * *

Esmeralda was dancing with a little band when she saw a group of men enter the cathedral. Curiosity overtook her and she put down her tambourine and wandered closer to the church to see what the commotion was about. There was yelling when the door opened again, and the guards threw a figure to the ground. He stumbled back to his feet and was pushed forward to the palace of justice.

Esmeralda gasped. She ran over to the guard, but one of them held her back by her shoulder.

"What's the meaning of this!" She demanded, yelling.

"This matter does not concern Gypsies," the man responded.

Esmeralda watched Quasimodo being shoved once more before she turned on her heel and ran post-haste to where she knew Phoebus would be. She found him playing a card game with some other guards in a guardhouse, and pulled his arm desperately.

"Phoebus! Quickly! It's Quasimodo!"

"Huh?" Phoebus responded. "How'd you get in here?"

"He's been arrested!"

At this, Phoebus stood. They rushed out of the guardhouse and directed their feet toward Notre-Dame. Quasimodo was already gone from the square when they got there.

"Wait here," Phoebus told Esmeralda, then marched into the palace of justice. Esmeralda chewed on her lip and paced. A crowd had gathered to chirp about the miraculous event of the arrest of the bell-ringer. One woman remarked that it was "about time." The woman next to her said "no, he saved that child!"

Phoebus approached the judge, who was writing with a quill inside his professional quarters.

"Ah, Captain Phoebus," the judge welcomed.

"On what charges were the bell-ringer arrested on?" Phoebus asked immediately.

The judge raised his eyebrows. He cleared his throat. "Oh, yes. He has been accused of assaulting a woman. A famous woman, if I remember."

Phoebus shook his head. "He wouldn't do that!" He exclaimed.

The judge gave him a funny look. "Monsieur, there were five eye witnesses. It will go to trial, but I assure you he will be found guilty."

"Who are the witnesses?"

"They asked not to be named publicly."

Phoebus threw his hands in the air. He circled the room, causing the judge to give him a quizzical look.

"You know this man?" The judge asked.

"He would never hurt anyone!" Phoebus insisted. He was shouting now, but the judge was not intimidated. "Did the woman accuse him herself?"

"No, but the witnesses-"

"Where is the woman? Has she been addressed in any capacity?"

"No, she left the city some time ago."

"What's her name?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that."

Phoebus punched the wall and stormed out. He descended the stone stairs leading outside with an angry vigor and came to Esmeralda with a bitter countenance.

"What is it?" She asked him.

"He's been accused of assaulting a woman."

"That can't be true."

"I know!"

Phoebus rubbed his face.

"Who is this woman?" Esmeralda asked.

"He wouldn't say," he responded.

A man approached them, and Phoebus really wasn't in the mood.

"What?!" The captain of the guard barked.

"Monsieur, where did they take that hunchback?"

"Please, I'm busy," Phoebus said.

"I'm sure he's innocent of whatever he's been accused of. He is quite kind."

"You know him?" Esmeralda asked.

The man nodded excitedly. There was dried paint on the edge of his hairline and he was dressed like a dandy.

"Oh, yes! Man can't hold his liquor, but he can chuck a horse!"

"He was accused of assaulting a woman. Do you have any idea who this woman would be?" Phoebus asked, adopting an interrogatory tone.

"No clue. Doesn't seem like his style," the man responded. He shrugged.

"Please. A wealthy woman. Famous? She recently left the city."

"Oh, yes! Of course! I was so sad to hear that she had gone."

Phoebus grabbed the man's collar. "WHO?!"

"Why," the man purred, "the fantastical Amaranth, the warbler, of course! You never saw her perform?"

Phoebus thought hard. "I've heard of her. Where did she go?"

"I've no idea. Ask Seraph."

"Who's Seraph?" Esmeralda.

"Ah," the man clicked his tongue. "That would be Quasimodo."

Phoebus looked at Esmeralda. Just a few months ago they would have thought they knew everything about the isolated bell-ringer. After all, he didn't get out much. Esmeralda was frowning. The man who had approached them shrugged.

"Yes, well," he said, "I am sure that things will 'work themselves out.' Confident, actually."

The pair watched the man walk away.

* * *

Quasimodo was kicked all the way into his cell, where he was clapped in irons and chained to the wall. He kept his head down as the guards left his cell and locked the door. He briefly saw that another man was chained in the opposite corner. The whole place stunk of human waste and mold. He sighed, pulling his knees up against his chest and trying not to breathe through his nose. He could feel the other man staring at him. His side was hurting where he had been hit, and he wondered apathetically if anything was broken. Misery was already present for him, and this development only reminded him coldly of it.

"You come out like that?" The other prisoner asked.

Quasimodo didn't entertain the man with an answer. He just stared forward, feeling as complete as an empty cup.

Phoebus descended to the oubliette. Esmeralda was not permitted down there, so she waited impatiently outside.

Phoebus stood outside of Quasimodo's cell.

"Quasi?" He asked. His friend was downcast, looking small and staring blankly before him. His messy red hair covered his eyes. "Quasi, talk to me. We might be able to get you out of here but I need more information."

"Information about what?" Quasimodo asked. "I didn't do anything!"

"Do you know a woman named Amaranth?" Phoebus asked. Quasimodo was taken aback, and was too late in trying to hide it.

"Yes," he quietly confirmed.

Phoebus squinted at his friend. Quasimodo appeared ashamed and surprised.

"You're ... friends?" Phoebus pressed. Quasimodo shrugged his shoulders, looking away. Phoebus realized that it must have been the brown-haired girl Jean had mentioned.

"You have been accused of attacking her," Phoebus stated. Quasimodo looked up at him and shook his head, wounded at the very idea.

"Never," the bell-ringer responded, furrowing his unkempt brows and sounding serious.

"I know," Phoebus said softly, "but do you have any idea where she went? She left Paris very suddenly. Esmeralda is going to ask everyone at the theatre, but it seems as if she just vanished out of thin air."

You could say that again. Quasimodo felt as though he upset her, maybe with the very fact of their relationship. Perhaps she left out of embarrassment to be associated with him. But even as he sat there, aching and melancholic, he knew that she would never think that. And she wouldn't want him to think that. Still, it was hard not to be upset with himself.

"Quasi?"

Quasimodo shook his head. "No..." he said, talking to himself. He looked Phoebus in the eye. "I don't thi-... Wait. She mentioned Rouen."

"Rouen? You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Phoebus nodded at Quasimodo. He cleared his throat. "You're sure she wouldn't.. make, or have somebody make this up?"

Quasimodo scowled. "Never!"

"Quasi, how can you be sure?"

Quasimodo tugged at his chains in frustration. "She-" he started, but the bitterness in his voice wore off. He fell back and looked at the wall, sighing. "She wouldn't do that."

"You're sure she said she was going Rouen?" Phoebus pressed.

"No, she only mentioned it," Quasimodo admitted.

Phoebus sighed. "Alright, alright. Well, it's better than nothing. Hang in there, Quasi. We'll get this figured out."

Quasimodo watched Phoebus leave. He sighed, crossing his arms on his knees and hiding his face behind them.

* * *

Jean was grilling Esmeralda outside when Phoebus approached them. He was fuming, and threw his hat on the ground.

"Phoebus!" He yelled. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'm not sure," Phoebus responded. "But we're going to get everything straightened out."

"You're the captain of the guard! Can't you just- just- I don't know, free him?"

Phoebus shook his head. "I don't have that power."

"Well, what's going to happen then?!"

"Calm down. We're going to try and get in contact with the woman. Once she reveals his innocence, he will be exonerated."

"That could take weeks!" Jean yelled. "Assuming you even find her! What if it's too late? He could get hurt—or hanged!"

"Well, it's all we have. Do you have another idea?" Phoebus asked. They were both leaning forward like politicians leaning over their podiums to get a word in during a debate.

Jean turned in a circle and held his head. "Well-no!"

Phoebus put a hand on Jean's shoulder.

"I promise, we'll figure this out."

Jean sighed. "Dammit. Yes, alright. Fine. Do you have any idea where this girl is?"

"We have a lead."

"Then leave, now. Take my horse, she's a bit old but she moves quickly. Solid brown with a missing ear."

Phoebus nodded. "Thank you."

Esmeralda grabbed his arm. "I hope you realize I'm coming," she said.

"Of course." It was no use arguing with her.


	13. Chapter 13

Snowball, Frollo's old horse, paced its paddock angrily. The friesian stallion was impossible to tame. It only bent to Frollo's will, and without him spent its time trying to bite stable hands and escaping. He was a handsome horse of immaculate breeding, and would have been put down had it not been for that fact. The men at the stable were trying to find a naïve wealthy man to sell him to.

Snowball glared intensely as Phoebus and Esmeralda passed the fencing holding him back. The horse stood perfectly still, as if to intimidate them. Phoebus frowned at him. The horse snorted suddenly and reared, causing Esmeralda to jump back. Phoebus steadied her and they walked into the stable to retrieve Achilles and Jean's horse, Holly.

They rode outside the city gates side-by-side. Esmeralda had just learned how to ride, thanks to him, and her confidence was lacking. But the circumstances gave her determination, and she led Holly with newfound surety. The mare matched her master. She was a simple, inexpensive horse, but a large and docile breed and easy to ride.

Esmeralda kicked her sides, and Holly ran in front of Achilles.

"A stream. We should water the horses while we can," Phoebus said, hopping off of Achilles and leading him by the bridle. Esmeralda sat stubbornly on Holly for a moment before acquiescing. She'd prefer they ride until they found their quarry, but understood that both the horses and their riders needed a moment of rest.

Phoebus sat on a stone next to the stream and pulled out a deerskin flask. He had a sip of water and offered it to Esmeralda.

"Don't worry. We're not far outside the city by now."

Esmeralda sighed. "What if she isn't even there?"

"Then we don't give up. We'll find her. I promise."

They hadn't found her on the road, which was expected. She should have been in the city by now.

Phoebus stood up to stretch his legs and walked around for a moment. He kneeled down to poke at something colorful hiding underneath the leaf litter. He picked it up, and called Esmeralda to "come look."

Amaranth stumbled behind a tree. She was gasping. Hungry, thirsty, tired. She had escaped the carriage when Victor had to pee. Her father didn't expect her to leap out and sprint into the woods. She couldn't begin to predict how long she had spent outside alone, but her hunger was beginning to make her feel weak and they had caught up.

She staggered away from the tree, then began to run again. She felt like a wounded deer fleeing its hunters.

"Stop running!" Her father yelled.

Somebody larger and faster came up behind her and grabbed her shoulder. She fought it, but failed to slip out of the man's grasp. Victor held her arm.

"Why you running?" He asked. Victor was always a simple man. He was sweet, but too naïve to understand her anger and fear.

She tugged away, falling on the ground and using her feet to push at his hands and free herself. She scrambled away from him, but he grabbed her by the dress and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder.

"Dammit, Victor!" She growled. Victor hopped up on the bare-backed horse which had been detached from the carriage. Her father sat on the draft horse next to him.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" He hissed. "You used to be such a sweet little girl. You could have died out here!"

Amaranth spat at the ground. "I would have been so lucky."

Her father scowled. They trotted back to where the carriage had been wheeled into the woods, and Amaranth's mouth was covered and she was forced to sit hidden in the back. Outside of the carriage, Victor tried to give her water, but it dripped down her closed lips.

"Is it Paris? You miss Paris?"

She glared at her father, unable to speak.

"You think a man loves you, that it?" Her father's voice devolved into a whisper. He leaned closely, and he was crying now. "Men would love to take advantage of a young lady like you. He may offer you honeyed promises. Don't let yourself be tricked. I'm offering you normalcy, security! That's all your mother wanted for you!"

Amaranth looked away.

Quasimodo was led out of his cell into the court. The judge sat like a cat in his anointed place, leaning back languidly. Quasimodo was placed in the center of the room to be gawked at. He could hardly hear what they were saying. The witnesses were called, and five men stood to speak.

Quasimodo almost didn't look up, but he remembered that voice. Harsh memories of cold rain and the sound of wood thumping bones shocked him into the past.

"We saw him, your honor," the man who had beaten him said. Quasimodo realized in the light that it had been the same man as the strongman from the tavern so many weeks ago.

"What did you see him doing?" The judge asked.

"He grabbed the woman and broke into her house, holding her by the neck and ripping off her blouse. It was clear even in the moonlight what that demon was doing."

"You are certain you saw this?"

"Yessir."

"The court calls the next witness."

It went as such for the next twenty minutes. The rest of the men told their woven stories, which all aligned perfectly with various amounts of details. Each story made Quasimodo sick, but he couldn't look up at the men's faces. He remembered a dull ache in his ribs.

"How do you plead, bell-ringer?" The judge asked.

Quasimodo tugged against his chains, causing the heads in the room to turn to him. He looked up, his good eye hitting the judge with an intense glare. He scowled, fuming. "I am innocent!" He yelled.

The judge conferred with the men about him. He nodded and turned back.

"Fifty lashes," he announced apathetically, then stood to leave.

"I didn't do it!" Quasimodo yelled after him. He was grabbed roughly and led out of the room, then thrown back into his cell. He ran up to the bars and rammed them with his shoulder, repeating: "I'd never hurt her!"

Esmeralda picked up what Phoebus was holding. It was Quasimodo's little figurine of himself. It stared at her with one blank blue eye.

"What's it doing out here?" She asked.

"Amaranth must have taken it," Phoebus responded.

"She was up in the bell-tower? Why?"

"I think she and Quasi were friends. Jean saw them together."

Esmeralda rolled the figurine in her hand. They mounted their horses and moved back to the main road, where a carriage was rolling past.

Phoebus trotted ahead of the carriage with Achilles.

"Captain of the Guard of Paris! Stop your carriage!"

The carriage rolled to a halt. Achilles circled the carriage, and Phoebus peered inside. A curtain over the window meant Phoebus could only see a single man and the knees of someone wearing a dress.

"Hello sir, are you in the company of the singer Amaranth?"

The man frowned. Was this his daughter's secret lover? "Why?"

"We believe a man has been falsely accused of assaulting her. Please allow us to talk with her. All we need is a handwritten account."

Hidden in the carriage, Amaranth witnessed her father glance at her quickly.

"Who is this man?" Her father asked, angrily.

"The bell-ringer of Notre-Dame," Phoebus responded. Amaranth tried to lean forward, but her father held out a restraining arm.

"Is this true?" Her father whispered to her. She shook her head no.

"All we need is a signature," Phoebus called into the carriage, trying to listen in to their one-sided conversation.

"I'm sorry, sir. My daughter is very tired and requires her rest."

"Too tired to sign a piece of parchment?" Phoebus asked, shaking his head. "Please, sir, it won't take more than a minute."

The man shut the curtain and called for the carriage driver to continue. Phoebus watched, flabbergasted, as the carriage continued down the street. Esmeralda came up behind him on Holly.

"That was her," Phoebus said.

"What?!"

"She wouldn't come out," he responded.

"Why not?"

Esmeralda scowled. She shook her head.

"She'll have to come out eventually," Phoebus said, nudging Achilles to trot. "We'll wait them out."

Amaranth was watching the white and brown horses following the carriage. They followed steadily until nightfall, which hit them just outside of Rouen. Her father exited the carriage to talk to one of the city guards. When he turned around, he saw his daughter sprinting toward the two horses. He cursed and glared at Victor, who had given all of his attention to a thimble.

Esmeralda and Phoebus paused once they saw the young woman approach.

"Are you the singer?" Phoebus asked. He shared a glance with Esmeralda.

She nodded, stopping to catch her breath. Her father was coming up behind her.

"He's innocent," she said breathily.

"So you'll help?" Esmeralda asked.

"Of course!" She declared. Esmeralda dismounted Holly and helped Amaranth up, then hopped up to sit behind Phoebus on his horse. The woman looked frayed and tired, but her face was twisted in a determined expression. She yanked on the reins and turned the horse while her father approached.

"You will unhand my daughter!" He demanded.

"YA!" Amaranth yelled, kicking Holly suddenly and causing her to fly ahead. Phoebus leaned forward, requesting the same of Achilles. Amaranth's blue cloak whacked the air behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The court scene in the novel is sadly quite hilarious. Quasimodo deserves it in the book, though. This is only a slight nod to the events that take place in the original version.


	14. Chapter 14

It didn't take long for the executioner to prepare. Quasimodo was taken out into the square and placed upon the pillory. The scene was eerily similar to what had happened a little over a year ago on the Feast of Fools. As his hands were being tied, a man approached.

"Your weight in gold coins for the man's release!" Donatello announced. He clinked a bag of livres in his hand, winking. The executioner looked him up and down, and ultimately ignored him. Offended, and incredibly surprised, Donatello pursued.

"Come now!" He called. "You could be a wealthy man!"

The executioner continued to ignore him. He did not, in fact, torture men for the sake of his paycheck.

The judge presided nearby and a crowd had formed. Jean came up, being held back by guards, and begged the judge for clemency. He was restrained and pulled away.

"Quasimodo, the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame, has been assigned fifty public lashings for his assault on a woman. Proceed!"

The executioner tore open Quasimodo's tunic. His back rose over his head like the sun rose over the horizon. He heaved, declaring again his innocence. The executioner reveled in his instruments, and took out an old, well-used whip with many tongues. He cracked it in the air for good measure, causing Quasimodo to flinch and pinch shut his eyes.

The first time he was struck caused his mouth to gape. He cringed deeply, tugging on the ropes now not to challenge them but for support. He was struck four more times, causing him to bleed prolifically from his back to the wooden boards beneath him. By then, he was perfectly still, but he wept silently at the agony.

* * *

Achilles struggled with two riders to keep up as Amaranth insisted on galloping the whole way back to Paris. She flew past the entrance to the city and headed toward the Cathedral, her and her horse being watched dutifully by the sorrowful bell-towers. Phoebus and Esmeralda followed. Amaranth barely saw the pillory ahead of her, and the ants gathered about it, when she started shouting.

"Stop this insanity!"

The crowd grew closer and she yanked at the reins, forcing the horse to stop suddenly and rear. Amaranth jumped off of Holly, crashing into the ground and nearly breaking her leg. She staggered to her feet and ran toward the pillory, yelling in a raspy voice, "the man is innocent!"

The judge recognized the singer from the first night she performed, as did many of the people observing the spectacle. He stood and raised his hand, stilling the executioner's arm.

Amaranth shoved the people watching aside roughly and climbed upon the stand and fell before Quasimodo. He was gazing at her with an expression impossible to read. She removed her cloak and laid it over his shoulders, then pulled a dagger from beneath her dress and began cutting desperately at the rope binding him. She wiped blood off of his forehead with her hands, cooing to him in whispered words of comfort. It was a strange thing to observe.

Behind the crowd, Phoebus helped Esmeralda off of Achilles. Phoebus marched toward the judge and Esmeralda tried to break through the crowd, as Amaranth had, to reach her friend.

"She says he is innocent," said Phoebus.

"She says so?" The judge asked. He looked then at the singer, who was petting Quasimodo's face and holding one arm around his side. He didn't need an answer. "I see," the judge said to Phoebus. He made a waving movement with his hand, and the executioner came down from the pillory.

Esmeralda was about to climb up when she saw the scene occurring there, and suddenly felt as though she were interrupting something. As the woman hugged herself to Quasimodo, Esmeralda realized why the man had been acting strangely for so long. It was clear then to everybody present that this was not an assailant and his victim. That, or Quasimodo had enchanted the woman with magic.

Quasimodo was slow to accept what was happening as reality rather than a cruel trick. It sunk in slowly as Amaranth held him. He melted, all at once, and hugged her to him. He had no tears left in that moment. The contrasting sensations of the wounds on his back and the woman embracing him were all he could feel, like being momentarily deafened by lightning and then hearing the song of a dove.

Amaranth pulled away and held his hands. Esmeralda appeared behind her, then the two helped Quasimodo to stand. Amaranth walked backward down the wooden stairs that lead to the pillory, pulling him along like a parent teaching a child to walk. Once he seemed able to walk confidently, she stood at his side and helped him into the church. Phoebus was soon behind them. The cathedral gazed angrily at the spectators, the rose window glaring unblinking like a single, disappointed eye.

* * *

Jean came rushing up to find them in the bell-tower soon after. The tension was tangible among them, and Quasimodo was sitting on his stool, trying to work through what had just happened. He was depending heavily on Amaranth's presence. She was perched on the table right behind him and leaning against his shoulder gingerly, drinking watered down wine from a bottle. He glanced at her again to make sure it really was her out of fear that she might have turned into smoke and dissipated.

The world around him felt simply surreal.

Esmeralda tried to get at his back, but he wormed away, saying "it's fine." She gave up when he eventually bumped into the table and winced.

Esmeralda then held his hand and kneeled in front of him.

"I'm so sorry we couldn't have been quicker," she said earnestly. Tears were coming up in her eyes. Quasimodo looked at her sincerely.

"I'm.. just glad it's over, I think," he responded.

Phoebus came back with a flask of fresh rain water and handed it to Quasi.

"I'm sorry we were late," he said softly. "I won't let that happen again. It was a bastardization of justice." He touched the bell-ringer gently on the arm, then went and leaned on a column next to the man's father.

Quasimodo spent another long glance on Amaranth, a glance which the two men noticed curiously.

Phoebus cleared his throat. "I'm sure you don't need to be crowded right now. We'll be back soon," he hinted. Esmeralda stood, squeezing Quasimodo's shoulder. Soon, the only ones in the room were Quasimodo and Amaranth.

Amaranth watched them leave before she hopped down from the table onto a stool and scooted in so close that her legs were between Quasimodo's knees. He held his hand to her face and she pressed her cheek into his palm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Why'd you go?" He asked, voice cracking. "Did I...?"

She shook her head, grabbing his arms roughly to stop his train of thought. "My father forced me to go," she said sincerely, then held his hand and looked him in the eye. "You must believe I did everything in my power to stay. And I'm never returning to that man."

"But.. He's your dad."

"Apparently."

"What will you do?"

Amaranth shook her head. "I don't know. But I have friends in Paris. I'll figure it out, trust me."

"I did," Quasimodo responded quietly.

"Hey," she responded in a wary tone.

The bell-ringer looked at his lap. "I'm sorry. I just- I was upset. Like a piece of me was just.. gone. And now, this..."

"Oh, Seraph. It's a romantic notion... but you are whole without me, without anyone," she responded. He appreciated her words, but the emotions he had been experiencing over the past week argued otherwise. He simply nodded.

"Let me clean your wounds," she said gently, not allowing him to answer before getting up and peeling the cloak off of his back. He hissed, gripping the table. She ripped the cork off of the flask of water with her teeth and dampened the clean side of the cloak. He buried his face in the crook of his arm as she tended, trying to apply as little pressure as possible.

"This shouldn't have happened," she mumbled. She paused, then hit the table, cursing.

"It's not your fault," he said, tenderly, then turned to hold her arm as she leaned over the table. He reached up and placed his hand on her shoulder, whispering, "you look tired."

She pinched her eyes shut and tried to gather herself. She straightened out, clenching the cloak in her fist, and gestured to him angrily. "You have no right, no right to be worried about me. Look at you. You were flogged, damn it all!"

"Yes, well, you abandoned your wealth and family for a penniless hunchback. Truce?"

She sighed, then eventually smiled. It was a dry, unusual smile. "One hell of a day, huh?"

"You can say that again," Quasimodo responded. She looked at him as he also developed a slight grin.

"It's not funny," she insisted as he chuckled at her. She pinched his side and he swatted her hand away. "Go put on a clean tunic, then," she ordered, and watched him hop off to his quarters.

Amaranth sighed. She caressed the replica of Notre-Dame, then put his lute in her lap and began to play.

* * *

"I don't know what to think," Esmeralda admitted as they passed through the nave.

"Well, it could explain why he has been behaving so odd. But why would anyone accuse Quasi of hurting her?" Phoebus responded.

"Jealousy?" She opined. "She's a famous woman."

"Perhaps . . ." Phoebus answered. He scratched at his beard. "I'll have to track down those witnesses. It was an organized attempt to get him hurt, maybe killed."

Jean rubbed his forehead, looking about as stressed as a man in his position would be.

* * *

Esmeralda, Jean, and Phoebus returned an hour later to find Amaranth warbling and playing the lute, sitting cross-legged on the tabletop. Quasimodo was parked half-asleep by the table, resting his head in his arms and yawning. Djali bounded over to him and nestled his head into his lap, causing Quasimodo to perk and eventually pet him. The day was finally coming to an end and the sunset cast warm fiery hues into the bell-towers.

Jean and Phoebus sat down and pulled out a deck of cards.

"You're a beautiful singer," Esmeralda said to Amaranth, smiling.

"Thank you," Amaranth responded, continuing to play as she spoke, "but I wonder if you're a better dancer."

Esmeralda quirked her brow, and Amaranth began to strum something upbeat, flourishing, and quick. Amaranth grinned in challenge, nodding to the music.

Quasimodo patted on his lap and Djali jumped up into his arms. Phoebus and Jean argued about who would deal the cards while Esmeralda began to dance. Quasimodo crossed his arms on the table and Djali rested his head on them.

Quasimodo awoke not long after to Esmeralda shaking his arm. Djali woke up too, and glared grumpily at the woman.

"Quasi! Come with us to the Court of Miracles."

"Wha- but-"

"Just for one night to keep you safe." Esmeralda smiled. "Amaranth's coming."

Quasimodo looked over at said woman, who was chewing on something and playing with the wooden figurines. A dove flew down asking for handouts, and she presented it a piece of bread on her flattened palm. Farther away was Phoebus unhappily handing a proud Jean a handful of coins.

"Alright," Quasimodo responded. He leaned back and stretched, something in his elbow popping. Djali hopped out of his lap and ran over to butt Phoebus's leg.

Meanwhile, a group of birds had surrounded Amaranth. A couple of them even ventured to sit on her lap.

"How do you keep these off of you?" She asked Quasimodo.

"You don't feed them," he responded dryly. She laughed and flicked crumbs at him, causing the doves to flood in his direction.

"Alright!" She announced, hopping off of the table. "I need to see this Court. How's the company?"

"Great," Phoebus said, more than ready to leave. "Let's head out."

"Oh, don't be a sore loser, lad," Jean egged. He slapped Phoebus on the back.

They descended into the nave. Amaranth tagged along behind Quasimodo, singing. Some praying Parisians turned to ogle the strange group as they left the church. The archdeacon waved them goodbye.

* * *

Clopin was delighted when he saw them come down to the Court. He immediately bounded over, looking the newcomer up and down.

"Ah!" He exclaimed. "We are not a charity, la Esmeralda," he said dryly.

"She can sing," Esmeralda responded.

"Or so I've heard," Clopin purred. He eyed Quasimodo, who stepped in front of Amaranth protectively like a hound in front of its master. Clopin smirked, holding out his arm to direct them forward.

"Come, you must sing for us! The boys are so bored these days," Clopin insisted, "they can only drink so much without a woman's song!"

"Happily, but when my eyelids aren't so heavy," Amaranth responded.

"Don't be silly! A gypsy never rests!" Clopin exclaimed, following the troop as they moved toward Esmeralda's vardo.

"Well, this one does," she responded. "Quasi, can you share a tent with Jean? Amaranth, there's an empty caravan right there, the one painted red and gold."

Amaranth thanked Esmeralda, then leaned down to hug Quasimodo. Their hands lingered together before she parted and moved toward the vardo.

Quasimodo caught Esmeralda watching him with a hand on her hip, and his face turned red.

"Go on," she shooed him with her hand. He turned to follow his father to his tent while Esmeralda and Phoebus entered her vardo. Jean held up a hand, keeping him from entering.

"I won't hear of it," he said, pointing at the red and gold caravan. "Go."

Quasimodo gave a lopsided, sheepish smile and obliged.


	15. Chapter 15

The Court of Miracles awoke early. The sounds of people preparing their goods to trade and beginning the day served as upbeat white noise for the whole place, grounding it with a unique, lively sensation. An old man with a tobacco pipe watched his grandchildren chase a hoop. Clopin Trouillefou was always up bright and early to watch over his people. Esmeralda, having been raised by the man, had adopted the same habit. She found Amaranth performing songs to a group of children. The singer had put on a simple tunic and men's bottoms, contrasting the confident, feminine manner she presented herself.

Rose's tot, named Rosita, was sitting on Amaranth's lap and shoving her chubby fingers between the strings of her lute. Quasimodo was observing from a distance, leaning against a caravan. Amaranth turned and held her hand out to him, and he shyly moved closer. Some of the children tried to scoot away, but they were soothed by Amaranth's calm. Rosita held up her arms and Quasimodo resigned himself to the role of a babysitter, picking her up and holding her as he sat cross-legged by Amaranth. The children quickly forgot that they were supposed to be afraid of him.

Esmeralda could not help but think of the events of the past few weeks. That morning felt like the morning right after a windstorm, when everybody peeks out of their homes to look at the mess of leaves and debris scattered everywhere and wonders if the storm was really through. There was optimism, but also wariness and confusion, a sort of profound atmosphere which stuck to one's lungs. Esmeralda was hesitant to disturb the momentary calm.

Phoebus wanted to track down the false witnesses. Their lies could result in a severe punishment, which Esmeralda looked forward to. But their punishment would not undue Quasimodo's suffering.

Esmeralda felt a presence come up next to her.

"Ah, Esmeralda, can you write?" Jean asked. He followed her eye-line, and smiled.

"No," she admitted, "But Phoebus can. Why?"

"Oh, I have a letter to write," he answered. He cleared his throat. "Good couple, huh?"

"Huh?" Esmeralda asked, thoughtlessly. She faced forward to watch Amaranth and Quasimodo again. "You think so?"

"Well, they seem to care about each other. That's all anyone can hope for, right?"

Esmeralda didn't answer. Quasimodo had attracted another child, who was trying to climb onto his back, which apparently was the perfect perch for the little boy. Amaranth plucked the child off of him to save him the discomfort.

* * *

Amaranth decided to take a walk through the market that afternoon. She carried a meager amount of money with her, just the pouch which was on her person when she left the carriage, and needed something fresh and sweet to eat. She stopped by the baker's stall and smiled at the portly man there.

"What'll it be, little lady?" he asked her warmly. She pointed at a pastry and he handed it to her in exchange for her money.

She smiled, humming, as she moved through the crowds. It was good to have a moment alone to think, even surrounded by strangers. She stopped to lean against an abandoned house when someone grabbed her from behind and tugged her into a shadowy corner. She was quick to drop the pastry and struggle, but she felt a cold dagger at her throat, causing her to stiffen and hiss. A man twisted her arm behind her back.

"You'll come to this exact spot in two days' time, past sundown. You hear me?"

"Why?" she spat.

"Say anything and I'll kill you, then that freak."

Amaranth stomped on the man's foot and fled from the alley. She turned on her heel and sprinted into the safety of the crowd, feeling nothing but the need to _move_. Her legs carried her faithfully to Notre-Dame. She ascended to the bell-tower and stopped only then to catch her breath. Phoebus was standing nearby and approached her.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Her eyes weren't on him, and instead surveyed the scaffolding above them. She heard a few thuds and saw Quasimodo land like a cat below the bells.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said. Quasimodo first smiled at her, but his expression soured when he saw her disheveled state and he trotted over to her.

"Amaranth, did something happen?" Phoebus asked her, holding her shoulder.

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. "I think I was just threatened," she said, still processing the event. "Piece of scum . . . didn't see his face."

"Where was this?"

"By the baker's," she responded. Phoebus nodded and didn't waste any time descending the bell-tower to investigate. Quasimodo grabbed her hand, looking concerned. She leaned against him for a moment to collect herself.

"I'm going to walk through the nave," she finally said. "I need a moment."

He nodded and watched her descend the stairs.

* * *

The man watched Amaranth converse with the captain, and clung to the shadows as he passed by. He moved behind a pillar as Amaranth descended the stone spiral staircase, and slipped deftly behind her. When she moved to a darker area of the nave, he crept forward and grabbed her by the neck, squeezing.

"I told you not to say anything," he hissed. "Gonna run to that devil who embarrassed me? See what happens, whore."

Amaranth's eyes rolled back. She made pained sounds trying to breathe, and the man pressed her into the stone wall. She struggled for a moment then kneed him in the crotch and he released her. She scrambled into the light, moving toward the seats and coughing in air like a fish.

"Bitch!" he exclaimed. He made a move to chase her, but a force stopped him at the collar. He was tossed into the walkway like a ragdoll. His shoulder slammed against the ground, breaking his collarbone. He sat up and pulled a dagger.

Quasimodo approached him, his gaze hot and frightening. The man stood and held up the blade. He slashed at Quasimodo's arm as he was grabbed again with a single large hand and slammed hard into a pillar. His nerves faltered and the dagger fell to the ground. Quasimodo's blood splashed like rain from a gutter onto the floor, but the hunchback did not respond to his injury. Quasimodo threw the man once more, and made a move to advance upon him.

"Ange…"

Quasimodo turned to Amaranth. She was holding her neck and barely sitting up. He forgot briefly about the other man and leapt over to her. He instinctively picked her up like a baby, pained immensely to watch her struggle.

"Unhand that woman, bell-ringer!" A man yelled, approaching them. Quasimodo was focused on Amaranth and watching her breathe when the man tugged her out of his hold and held her to his chest. "You would attack a woman, devil?"

A woman came up behind him.

"Nonsense," Sir Percival said, reaching out and holding Amaranth's arm. Percival looked at Quasimodo, who was stepping forward protectively, the tail-end of his anger still leaking through in the form of an intimidating glare. "Seraph, what happened?"

Quasimodo paused suddenly and looked around. The man had fled the church. "Dammit!" He exclaimed. Amaranth held out her hand and tried to get back to him, but the man held her tight to his side.

"Quasimodo would never hurt her," Percival said to the man, grabbing his shoulder. "He was protecting her."

The man looked unconvinced, but Amaranth wrestled out of his grasp and moved to lean on Quasimodo. He steadied her by holding her bicep. She tried to gesture to the bleeding wound on his arm, which was leaking red down his hand, but she couldn't speak loud enough.

"It was one of the witnesses," Quasimodo said. "He was hurting Amaranth.. I just-"

"I understand," Percival said softly. "Come, let's get you both to a healer. I know just the man."

* * *

Percival led them through the city and to a well-kept edifice. She swung the door open, yelling, "Jacques! That favor you owed me?"

A man dressed in black came up to the door.

"I am a very busy man," he began to protest, then leaned over to peer outside at his unusual guests. He grinned and swung open the door. "Oh, of course! Come in!"

Quasimodo led Amaranth inside, looking unsure and unhappy. He was still tense and anger residue stuck to his person. He was holding Amaranth tightly about her waist. The physician circled him once, smiling.

"An incredible case of kyphosis," he said, then clicked his tongue. "Although, I would suggest-"

"Jacques, his arm."

"No, that's a normal arm- ah, yes. Well, that would need some mending. And the woman, strangulation? Pardon me, I'll be right back." Jacques Coitier shuffled into another room, then returned with a wooden box of supplies. The physician cleared his throat. Quasimodo was not in the mood for frivolousness.

"Yes, well, there's not much to be done about that," he gestured to Amaranth, "aside from rest. Perhaps something for inflammation. Try to rest your voice."

She was radiating anxiety, but nodded. The physician pulled up a seat next to Quasimodo, and lifted the man's elbow. Quasimodo looked at the physician severely as he admired his new patient.

"Can you speak?" The doctor asked.

"Yes," Quasimodo responded. He looked at Percival, unamused. The doctor smiled.

"Yes, well, let's wrap that up," he concluded, and pulled fabric from his box. He bound it quickly around Quasimodo's arm, then tied it tightly and cut the rest off with a dagger. "That'll have to be changed," he warned, then added, "you have ten toes?"

"What?"

"Jacques," Percival said.

"Come now! You bring me a specimen such as this and expect me NOT to express interest?"

"Yes," she responded.

Jacques waved his hand passed Quasimodo's face, testing his eyes. Quasimodo blinked and, realizing the doctor's intentions, scowled.

"Yes," Quasimodo said suddenly as he stood, his voice developing a deep, harsh edge. "I have ten toes, ten tails, and my bellybutton is a portal to the inferno. Thank you for the help; we're leaving."

Quasimodo grabbed Amaranth's forearm and she didn't protest as she was led through the door. She shrugged at Jacques, who appeared simply befuddled.

"I'll kill him," Quasimodo growled as they walked. Amaranth looked at him and he shook his head. "Not the doctor," he corrected.

He was gripping her arm tight enough for it to hurt. She slipped her arm away and re-connected by holding his hand. Once they were a few meters away from the physician's building, she stopped moving and forced Quasimodo to look at her. She looked at him sadly, pleadingly.

"No. I heard what he said to you," Quasimodo said. His jaw clenched. "I'll find him, I-I'll-"

"No," she whispered hoarsely. She looked at him with watery eyes and shook her head. "I don't need you in the dungeons right now."

She reached out her hand and touched his face. He closed his eyes.

"Alright," he finally said. "Let's go find Phoebus, then."

* * *

Phoebus was trying to find witnesses when he was approached by his friends. He instantly registered the gauze around Quasimodo's arm, and purple fingerprints had formed around Amaranth's neck. The sight made him instantly serious.

"What the hell happened?" Phoebus asked. His tone was biting, but Amaranth and Quasimodo recognized that it wasn't directed towards them.

"A man attacked her!" Quasimodo responded.

"Did you recognize the man?"

"No," Quasimodo initially said. His eyes widened. "No, wait. It was one of the witnesses, the man from the arm-wrestle."

"I'll request his arrest-tell me what happened."

Quasimodo recounted the events, his voice sounding more stressed as he continued to speak.

"So he did escape?"

Quasimodo nodded.

"Well, he should be injured, perhaps walking with a limp. Dark clothing, tall? I'll tell my men immediately," Phoebus said. He put a hand on Quasimodo's shoulder. "Don't worry, Quasi. We'll find him. I bet you scared him off for good."

Quasimodo didn't look satisfied.

"Amaranth can stay in my home," Phoebus added. "She'll be guarded at all times, and there's an extra bedroom. Alright?"

Quasimodo sighed. He looked at Amaranth, who nodded in agreement only to soothe his nerves. The bell-ringer deflated. "Okay."


	16. Chapter 16

Quasimodo was stuck to her like glue for the next few days. She wouldn't mind at all, if he weren't so anxious. His worry overpowered his self-consciousness, and he walked along the street with her, not registering the stares. It was an unusual sight to those around them, the bell-ringer and the popular singer.

Amaranth wandered along by the Seine on a muddy embankment. She stopped and parked herself under an impressive oak tree. There was a group of beggars performing nearby, and the sun was sliding down the sky. Amaranth's voice was coming back, but she still couldn't sing.

Amaranth pulled a lute from her back and began to play. Quasimodo sat down next to her and inspected his finger-nails.

"Relaaax, my friend," she purred, her voice still gravelly.

"Friend?" he asked dryly.

She made a show of falling over onto his lap, clutching her chest. "Mon ange, my love," she said dramatically. He simply humphed, but she saw him repressing a smile.

"Little performer," he mumbled. She smiled at him and sat up, nudging his arm. She tickled him and hopped up to climb the oak.

"I'm not in the mood to mess around," he told her, but she had disappeared behind the leaves. He sighed and stood, and grabbed a branch to pull himself up. She had ascended to a high perch and he could only see her bare feet swaying above him. He found a spot next to her and pulled himself up, watching her as she hummed and swung her legs back and forth.

"How can you be so cheerful?" he asked her.

"Being unhappy won't change the future or the past," she responded. She threw a twig at him, and it got caught in his hair. He pulled it out, frowning. "I need to distract myself," she added candidly, throwing a dried piece of sap at him.

"Oh, will you stop that?" he asked, throwing it back. Ignoring his plea, she grabbed a fistful of leaves and launched it at him. He returned the favor, and she climbed up to a higher branch to avoid it. He grabbed a small chunk of bark and threw it lightly at her. She laughed as she was hit in the back, and ripped a small branch off of the tree and tossed it back. Her laughter was something sweet, and he had to get more. He smiled, following her trail through the branches. He watched her shimmy down the tree and hop onto the ground. He was barely to the ground when she climbed back up.

"Hey!" he yelled, and chased after her. He was a quicker climber, and grabbed her heel. She kicked away his hand, laughing down. He finally met her on the same branch and held her around her waist with one arm. He sat and pulled her down with him, and they straddled the branch like two riders on the same horse.

"I win," he announced, grinning. She turned around to smile at him.

" _I_ win," she responded. Quasimodo rested his chest on her back and looked at the cozy, calming sunset.

"Yes, alright," he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something sweet.


	17. Chapter 17

Amaranth pulled a blanket up to her chin. She melted into the sheets, yawning. The anxiety from the following week was finally beginning to ebb, although that sinking feeling was difficult to shake. The sensation was becoming familiar. She was exhausted after having to dodge all the outside forces which threatened her and her bell-ringer, but she was a stubborn girl. It would be easy to leave Paris, find her father, and marry into a safe life. But she wouldn't fit into that lifestyle. Some, she realized, would never slide into place. The world just wasn't flexible enough. But companionship was a far sweeter thing to her than assimilation, and she had grown profoundly attached to Quasimodo. Something about him was comforting, like a sturdy old house built on a solid foundation, however weathered.

Amaranth rolled over to her side. She buried her face in the pillow, and tried to think of nothing. Her efforts paid off an hour later when she was finally able to fall asleep.

* * *

Amaranth was whistling happily, skipping toward Notre-Dame. Quasimodo was walking out of the building from the West-Facade and they were nearly face-to-face when a cloaked man pushed her to the ground. The man launched himself at Quasimodo dagger-first. Quasimodo grabbed his head and slammed it into the West Facade of Notre-Dame, causing the man to crumple into a pile of awkwardly placed limbs.

Amaranth watched Quasimodo stumble once, then fall to his knees. He pulled his blood-covered hand from his stomach. The man fell slowly onto his side, like the cap of a mountain sliding into the river at its base. Amaranth dragged her body desperately to his prone form. She hovered her hands stiffly over him, afraid that her touch would cause what was happening to become real.

His good eye looked up at the sky, unblinking, its turquoise color drifting closer to the dull color of sea foam. He saw her blurry face over him, and smiled.

"It's okay," he said hoarsely. Blood appeared from his nose. "It's okay."

"No," she begged. She tugged at his tunic, trying to bring him to sit, as if doing so would cause him also to stand.

His hand touched hers. "I'm okay," he told her gently. As the world lost its detail, he perceived the warm colors of sunset. "See?" he said in an ever weakening voice. "What a beautiful day."

Rain clouds had been gathered overhead for the past hour and the sky above them was grey and dark. Amaranth wailed like a wounded animal as his body slackened under her.

* * *

Amaranth fell from the bed and onto the ground wrestling sheets off of her. She peeled herself from them and stumbled to her feet. She ran, drunk with sleepiness, through Phoebus's house and into the street. Her bare feet slapped against the cobblestone as she sprinted. She slipped through the semi-open portal to Notre-Dame and ascended to the bell-tower. The archdeacon called after her. Amaranth broke into Quasimodo's quarters and fell over the figure under the sheets, shaking it violently. A large hand came up suddenly, knocking her over. Quasimodo sat up and looked semi-consciously about him, squinting, confused, and tired. Amaranth sat up and threw herself onto him. He stiffened and nearly tossed her off. As she cried, he recognized her and relaxed, eventually putting an arm around her back to soothe her.

"Amaranth?" His voice was deep and inarticulate from sleep. He pulled her into his lap to keep her knee from poking into his thigh.

The door to his quarters creaked.

* * *

Phoebus was strolling through the city when he was hit in the back with a sword. The blow was weak, and only caused his armor to ring. He turned and instantly pulled out his blade. He hit the sword out of the other man's hand, weakened by alcohol, and held the sword up to the man's neck. The man foolishly pulled a knife, and Phoebus had to dispatch of him. Another man leapt out of the darkness to attack him, and another man appeared behind him. Phoebus pulled out another sword to hold in his left hand. He fought with the man before him, moving quickly to avoid being stabbed in the back. One strong swing killed the man before him, and he simultaneously threw his elbow into the man behind him, knocking him to the ground and also delivering a slash to the man's gut. Phoebus stood over the bodies of three assailants. They had been swearing and shouting. As Phoebus held his blade to the last living assailant, the man spat blood at him. "The demon is dead already," he growled. Phoebus shook his head at the man, frowning. _The demon?_ His eyes widened. He ran out of the alleyway, allowing the man to die alone there and moving swiftly toward the cathedral.

"You, guard! Come with me!" He yelled. Five armored men outside of a tavern looked at each other briefly before adhering to his orders and coming up to his side. He first began to walk quickly, but the anxiety in his chest propelled him into running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually don't narrative via dreams--and didn't plan to in this instance. The death of Quasimodo in her dream was originally going to be the ending to this story, which explains the bittersweet dialogue. But I don't think anyone coming to read fanfiction is wanting a melancholic ending.


	18. Chapter 18

Quasimodo would have missed the shadowy figure if the blade it wielded didn't glint in the moonlight. Quasimodo immediately threw Amaranth off of him and dodged an attack, then stood up. Amaranth landed a few feet away in a baffled state. Quasimodo stumbled backward as he was stabbed at again, then shoved the man into a wall. The man shook his head like a mad dog and came at him again, but Quasimodo was quick. He grabbed the man by the side of his face and threw his skull into the nearest wall. His head met stone with an unpleasant thwap and the man was instantly dead. Another figure appeared menacingly in the doorframe, threatening them with a sword. He ran toward Quasimodo.

Amaranth rolled onto her feet. Realizing barely what was happening, she grabbed the dagger and leapt onto the man's back, digging it violently into his neck. Amaranth went down with him as he gurgled and twitched, collapsing, then stilled. She came to her feet shakily, holding the dagger.

* * *

Phoebus and the guards burst through the doors. Phoebus's chest heaved, sword unsheathed. The archdeacon didn't have time to process the commotion before the captain and his men ran upstairs. He burst into the bell-tower, sword at the ready.

A woman dropped a dagger. She walked, meekly, to a dimly lit figure and Phoebus recognized Quasimodo reaching out to grab her arm. Phoebus squinted in the dim light.

"Amaranth?" Phoebus asked. "Quasi? Are you okay?"

Quasimodo looked around him. The metallic scent of blood filled the bell-tower and he felt a visceral, unpleasant sensation in his chest. He wanted to vomit.

"T-They.." he started, but he never picked the sentence up again. Phoebus ordered his men to survey the nave.

"You two best sit down," Phoebus said. He retrieved a torch from the stairwell and held it over the bodies.

"Do you recognize these men?" He asked Quasimodo.

Quasimodo was staring unblinking at his feet. Amaranth was difficult to read. Without looking up, Quasimodo answered. "They were two of the witnesses."

"Hmm.. Yes," Phoebus said. He turned over the man who had been stabbed in the neck. "This is the man from the pub. I suppose those men who attacked me were the other three. Don't worry, Quasi. These men tried to kill the captain of the guard-you won't get in any trouble."

Quasimodo nodded.

"Why would they do this?" he asked.

Phoebus sighed. "An embarrassed man can be a dangerous thing," he replied. "You'd best go to the Court. I'll have my men clean this up."

"What is going on?!" the archdeacon yelled up. He was frazzled and dressed in typical clothing rather than his more commonly seen clergyman garb. He came up to observe the scene, and instantly appeared horrified. "You have spilled blood in the house of God?" he hissed at Phoebus.

"They attacked Quasimodo and Amaranth," Phoebus responded, and the archdeacon instantly turned his eyes to them. "Will you escort them down?" he asked.

The archdeacon frowned and nodded. "Come with me, children," he said, holding out his arm. Quasimodo and Amaranth followed him into the nave.

"I'm too old for this," he grumbled.

* * *

The pair looked like ghouls as they entered the Court. Amaranth was speckled with blood and Quasimodo carried himself stiffly. Esmeralda was practising a dance with Djali when she saw them and instantly ran to them. She had been drinking and revelling with other Romanis after a successful day of panhandling. It was late, and she was about to go to bed.

"What happened?" she asked, grabbing Quasimodo's hand and tugging him closer so that she could inspect him. Satisfied that he was uninjured, she then looked Amaranth over. Amaranth was shaky, and bloody, but she herself was not wounded. It was clear with the blood on her hands that she had been the one delivering the wound.

"Two men attacked me in the bell-tower," Quasimodo responded. "They're dead."

Esmeralda nodded. She grabbed Quasimodo's shoulder and led him, leading Amaranth, to sit outside of her caravan.

"Who?" she asked.

"The strongman, and someone I barely recognize."

"Barely?"

Esmeralda brought out a bucket of water and put it in front of Amaranth. She was happy to dunk her hands in and scrub the blood off.

"Yes, well, you two are staying down here whether or not you like it," Esmeralda stated. Neither Amaranth or Quasimodo were in the state to disagree. Esmeralda waited for Amaranth to be satisfyingly free of blood and then grabbed her arm and led her into her caravan. "Put on something clean," she ordered.

Quasimodo rubbed his face, trying to control his breathing.

Esmeralda sat down next to him and held his hand.

"That man can't bother you anymore," she said gently, "so don't you worry. You're safe here."

Quasimodo nodded. He choked on his own breath and looked down, beginning to cry. Esmeralda wrapped her arm around him and scooted in close.

"It's alright," she spoke softly.

"I've killed two men," he struggled to push out the words as he spoke. He looked at Esmeralda sadly. "I'm not a killer."

"It doesn't count when you have no other choice," she responded. "You have to protect yourself."

"My safety isn't a factor," he stated. "I was protecting you. I was protecting her."

"And we both want you safe," she responded. He sighed, wiping his eyes.

Amaranth walked out of the caravan and sat down next to Quasimodo.

"I had a dream about a man . . . _trying_ to stab you," she said. It seemed that she wanted to say more, but she closed her lips and let a moment pass. "I need a drink," she added. Quasimodo pulled her closer and, in an unusual show of public affection, kissed her temple.

Esmeralda retrieved some cheap wine for the three of them to tolerate. Amaranth was happy to drink herself drunk while Quasimodo sipped occasionally in introspection, enjoying the constant sounds of life that kept the Court awake.


	19. Chapter 19

Phoebus found Quasimodo sitting in the Court surrounded by children. He had become their new favorite playground, and he was finding himself more comfortable around them.

"Quasi," Phoebus said, causing the bell-ringer to turn to him. "This is from the judge, he wanted me to give it to you personally."

Quasimodo put down Rosita to take the note. He peeled off the wax seal and read it slowly. His eyebrows furrowed and he frowned.

"What is it?" Phoebus asked.

"I don't understand," Quasi responded.

"What?"

"I've .. inherited Frollo's possessions and wealth," he answered. He removed a key from the letter and rolled it in his palm. Rosita tugged at his arm. "But what about Jehan?"

"Jehan?" Phoebus asked, getting frustrated.

"Jehan, he's Frollo's younger brother."

"There are two of them?"

"No, Jehan is nothing like Frollo. Last time I saw him, anyway."

"Perhaps he couldn't be found. It's common with these sorts of things. That would explain why it took so long."

Quasimodo frowned. He folded up the parchment paper and tucked it under his belt.

"Oh, also," Phoebus said, smiling. He put a pouch in Quasimodo's hand. Quasimodo opened it and peered in, then looked at Phoebus, confused. Phoebus nudged him. "Turns out, Frollo was pocketing your salary. Bell-ringers are supposed to get paid. There's a lot more where that came from."

"Huh," Quasimodo responded. "I'm not sure how to respond."

"Well, you could start by buying yourself an actual bed. Seriously, Quasi."

Esmeralda came up behind Phoebus and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Quasi has just become a rich man," Phoebus responded. Esmeralda looked quizzically between her friends.

"Really?" she questioned. "Quasi, what are you gonna do with it?"

"Phoebus told me to buy a bed," he responded. His eyes moved up at some movement nearby, and he watched Amaranth move among the caravans.

* * *

Esmeralda looked good in gold. That is, her gold and purple wedding gown caused her green eyes to glow like gems. All of her, in fact, was glowing. Phoebus wore his nicest clothes. They stood together in Notre-Dame while the archdeacon married them. They recited their vows, and then joined their hands together. Archdeacon Francis tied a scarf around their wrists and their union finally materialized. Quasimodo waited for the moment in the triforium and then ran up to the bell-tower. The pair embraced to the toll of Notre-Dame's sweeter-sounding bells.

Phoebus's family clapped politely while Romani men and women whooped and stood up to cheer and throw colorful things.

Quasimodo leapt down and looked about. Amaranth was wandering up. She was wearing a purple dress which hugged her figure and trailed behind her as she walked. It suited her. She looked outside, yawning. There would be a reception of sorts outside. Quasimodo moved next to her to look outside as well. He followed her eyeline to Esmeralda and Phoebus as they left the church and skipped on the cobblestone.

"Would you ever want to get married, Amaranth?" he asked her.

"No," she stated, smiling. "Would you?"

"Course not," he responded, placing an arm around her and hugging her close. She laughed and kissed the top of his head.

"Oh, I have something for you," he said. "I'll show you after the reception."

"Come now, you're going to tantalize me like that?" she responded. "Well, best get this over with quickly then. Come on, mon ange."

Amaranth grabbed the lute on the table and descended the staircase. She burst from the church with Quasimodo following distantly behind her. She grabbed a cup of wine from a man serving drinks and held it up.

"You call this a party?" she called, downing the wine and slamming down the cup. She swung her lute over her chest and pointed at a Romani man with a drum. The man began to play excitedly, and the rest of the performers about him began to produce upbeat, fast paced music. She played along, melting into the music flawlessly.

Quasimodo sat down on the steps leading out of the church. He clapped along to the music while Amaranth played with the band. Romani men, women, and children blended with other Parisians as they danced and enjoyed drink and good food. Esmeralda and Phoebus were swinging along through the crowd. A man rested against the church to catch his breath, then looked down at Quasimodo.

"God, you're an ugly one," he said offhandedly.

"You'll get over it," Quasimodo responded casually, not bothering to look up. He smiled as Amaranth danced and played.

* * *

Amaranth was singing, half-drunk, as Quasimodo led her through a block of buildings. She leaned onto him and gesticulated dramatically, as if she were still performing for a group of people. Quasimodo was grateful to hear her singing voice again. It seemed ever since she got it back that she had to sing every other hour. He, of course, was not complaining.

"Oh, my tired old legs!" she exclaimed, falling over, forcing him to catch her.

"We've been walking for five minutes," he responded, pretending to act like he wasn't entertained. He carried her for no more than two minutes before putting her down onto her feet.

"Come on," he said gently. She was rubbing her eyes as he approached a building and unlocked the front door.

"Aw, you buy me a house?" she joked.

He walked through the door frame. "Yeah," he responded casually.

"Wha..?"

She trailed behind him, mindlessly dropping her lute by the door. The entrance was immediately followed by a massive fireplace. Quasimodo had taken a torch from outside and threw it in. As the fire grew, the house was covered in warm light.

"Well, sort of," he expounded, "not legally. But it's clean, and nice, and I thought you'd enjoy someplace closer and warmer than the Court. There's plenty of space. I know how you like your privacy."

Amaranth circled a table. She clutched her hands and put them to her lips. Quasimodo smiled at her as she explored.

"Oh, and there's a closet," he said.

"I can't . . . you didn't have to," she responded.

"Yes, well, I wanted to and you can't change my mind."

She smiled at him and punched him on the shoulder. He pulled her close and ruffled her hair. She twisted out of his hold and wiggled away.

"Do that again and you're buying me a comb too, Monsieur Richie Rich," she said to him, making him laugh. She stuck out her tongue and she turned on her heel, running through the house. He chased her to the balcony and watched her hop up and walk along the railing. He climbed up and sat down while she balanced along, holding out her arms. She lowered herself down and straddled the railing, leaning back over him and stretching. She pulled his forearm over her midsection like a blanket and cuddled up against him. She sighed, then closed her eyes to focus on the sensations of the evening: the cold air, distant sounds, a horse clip-clopping down the street.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I am so grateful. When I think about it, really, I've never been so happy."

As Quasimodo sat there, holding her close and gazing at the bell-towers peaking over the surrounding buildings, he whole-heartedly shared the sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of part one to this series. I'm still working on part two. I hope someone read this and enjoyed it! I know the ending is rushed, but I knew I had to finish it or I never would. This is actually the first fic I have ever published. Much love.
> 
> Oh, and I know it kinda poo-poos on my story to explain it, but I figured I should. Quasimodo and Amaranth won't get married because they don't want to "play the game", if that makes sense. It's a bit of a middle finger to social expectations.
> 
> EDIT: Working on a sequel. Hopefully it'll be far more, er, articulate. This first part just started as me bored writing in my notes with no story in mind, but the sequel will be far more planned out. The strongman story line was inserted when I decided I wanted to beat Quasimodo up; initially it was just going to be a bunch of little sections showing Amaranth helping Quasimodo come out of his shell.


End file.
